Author's Note: What happens here may well be predictable and probably unimaginative, but I ask you what else I could've done for the "Tiny Tim" role.
Chapter Three: The Second of the Three Spirits
When Flynn awoke again, it was dark outside once more. This did not startle him as it had before, since he knew and had accepted the fact that spirits were about. This time he was prepared. The second ghostly visitor would show up at one o'clock, he recalled quite distinctly, and he was not going to be surprised this time. He had had quite enough of being surprised by such guests, and the closing scene from the last visit had left him in no mood to be treated to any further unpleasant remembrances—"taken advantage of," as he had mumbled to himself before going to sleep.
The heavy bell chimed one. Flynn braced himself. And no one, no fleshly being nor spirit, appeared.
Time passed. Five after, ten after, then fifteen. Flynn began to get annoyed. "Being held up by a ghost! This has to be the strangest thing that's ever happened to me—" he began to say, when suddenly a light shining through the keyhole caught his attention. It was a glowing orange light, which immediately put him in a state of alarm—was there a fire in the adjoining sitting room?—and necessitated his quitting the bedchamber.
He opened the door and nearly gasped in amazement. What had been a mostly bare room, stocked with a little furniture and a few books, was now transformed into a room fit for a holiday feast. Greens were draped across every inch of space, mistletoe and ivy hung from the ceiling, and the fireplace roared with flames—though his fear of a wild blaze was unfounded, as the fire did not leave the hearth. And the food! Dishes of goose, turkey, ham, sausages, roasted vegetables, steaming hot rolls, spiced pears, puddings, pies, cakes—an olfactory heaven lay in his shabby little sitting room.
In the midst of the feast sat a cheerful man, dark-haired and bearded, though it was a full beard and an untidy one, rather unlike Flynn's. He was garbed only in a dark green velvet robe trimmed with white, and the top of it was open, exposing the man's chest. The garment was belted. On the man's long and messy hair lay a wreath.
"I am the Ghost of Christmas Present," the personage said.
Flynn merely stared at the spirit, wordless.
"Have you never seen the like of me?"
"Can't say that I have," Flynn said.
"Have you not walked and feasted with some of my brothers, meaning those born in recent years?" the spirit demanded.
"Brothers born in recent years?" Flynn said, though he thought his voice sounded like a squeak.
"I have just over seventeen hundred brothers, you know."
Flynn hardly knew what to say. "Well, that's... quite a family." As the spirit's meaning finally occurred to him, he thought about his reply. "And—yes, I think so. Some. Why," he said, trying to put some indignation into his words, "I 'walked and feasted' with your 'brother' from last year!"
The ghost frowned at him. "You did not," he said. "Another of your household did, while you stood by and watched."
Flynn felt conscious under the piercing gaze of this spirit. As with his previous guests, he felt that this personage could look right through him, and it was not a comfortable feeling. "Spirit," he finally said, "if you have business with me, or anything to show me or teach me, then feel free to do so."
The ghost regarded him for a moment before nodding. "Touch my robe!" he said.
Flynn did, and at once, the feast vanished before his eyes. In fact, so did the whole room, and the nighttime darkness. They found themselves at once in a bright Christmas daylight, standing in the middle of what appeared to be a courtyard. A cheerful, jaunty little town surrounded them to their right, and to their left loomed a picturesque castle. The buildings were all decked out in evergreen and red ribbons. Bells hung from certain low windows and a tree had been set up and decorated in the middle of the courtyard. Snowflakes were falling lightly, dusting the courtyard with a soft powder.
Flynn glanced around in bewilderment. This jogged a memory, certainly... in fact, as he focused harder on the place, he realized that he knew exactly where this was. This was the courtyard of the royal castle of Corona, the island kingdom from which he had stolen the princess's crown. The artifact that had ultimately led him out to a tower...
Flynn turned to the Ghost of Christmas Present. "What are we doing here?" he asked. "My previous visitor brought me to places, I think, with the purpose of"—for a second Flynn was about to say "shaming me," but thought better of it, since that accusation had not gone over well with the ghost of Mother Gothel or the Ghost of Christmas Past—"the purpose of making me think about them, and about their meaning. And they had a connection to me. They were my memories. This place—Spirit, I don't have the crown anymore. That was the only connection I ever had with this place."
The spirit regarded him evenly. "That is not so, Eugene. You do have another connection of which you do not know. But you must figure it out yourself. For now, observe!"
Flynn turned to the door that led into the courtyard. "Can we go inside?" he asked.
"We can indeed." The spirit headed toward the door at once, and Flynn continued with him. They passed through the door as if it were nothing at all.
The inside of the castle was also decorated for Christmas. Evergreen boughs and holly adorned the halls, and ribbons and bells hung from the doorways. Clutching the spirit's green robe, Flynn walked with him down the corridors until they came at last to a vast banquet hall from which delicious scents issued forth. They proceeded inside.
"They cannot see us," the spirit said.
"Right," Flynn said. "I gather that's how your kind can make things work." He peered out at the room. A vast wreath easily five feet in diameter hung high from the grand window of the dining hall, and red and gold ribbons extended from this wreath across the room to the other side. The table was piled high with treats just like those that had been in Flynn's sitting room when he found the spirit there, except there was vastly more food here.
At one end of the table sat His Majesty, King Everard of Corona. He wore his crown and wore a dark green robe trimmed in white, similar in some respects to that which the Ghost of Christmas Present wore, Flynn noticed—but the king was properly dressed underneath it. Beside him sat his wife, Queen Sophia. She also wore her crown, and she was dressed in winter white with light blue and silver trim. On the other side of the king sat the Captain of the Guard, still in royal livery, but without his helmet. Other members of the guard, those that apparently did not have families of their own to dine with, sat nearby. Then at the other end of the table, what looked like the entire staff of castle servants sat.
"The royals invite their staff and the guardsmen who are alone in the world to dine with them at Christmas," the Ghost said to Flynn. "They say it is important to remember at this time of year that regardless of wealth or position, they are all human beings, all created equal."
Flynn did not know that about them. He had always supposed them to be snobbish and arrogant. He glanced at Queen Sophia, and for the first time he noticed a tear glistening in one eye. He looked then at the king. His eyes were already rimmed with tears. The king glanced down quickly and dabbed them with his napkin, pretending to wipe his mouth at the same time.
"It must be very lonely for them to eat all by themselves in this huge room during the rest of the year," Flynn said, because he felt that he needed to say something.
"Actually, the king and queen do not usually dine in this hall at all. There is a smaller room for family meals. Of course, theirs is a very small family." He gave Flynn a significant look at this.
Flynn knew what the spirit was referring to, the kidnapping of their daughter, but he didn't know what that had to do with him. It was tragic, of course—no parent should have to suffer through that—but he had been only a boy himself when it happened, and at no point in his criminal career had he heard even the slightest hint of the princess's whereabouts. Honestly, he believed her to be dead.
"She is not dead," the spirit said, reading Flynn's thought.
Flynn turned around. "You can see anything—like that?" he demanded.
"On this day, I can look upon whom I will. I also have the gift of prophecy."
"You do? Then—will she be found?" Flynn asked. He couldn't explain why, but all of a sudden, it was very important to him that the daughter of these kindly people be found. He glanced at the queen again. She was a beautiful woman, and she looked remarkably like Rapunzel. Wait, where did that thought come from? he wondered.
"If the shadows that I see remain unchanged, then no, she will not be found, nor will their reign be long. Even now they bury their grief in their work, but with each passing year the burden becomes greater, and it is especially great at certain times of the year."
Flynn felt as if the Ghost had dashed him with icy water. "That's terrible!" he exclaimed. He turned to the spirit. "Where is she? I'd bring her home myself if I knew where she was"—and the reward for that sure would be large, a traitorous part of his mind whispered.
The Ghost shook his head sadly at him, and Flynn realized at once that his thought had been overheard. "Your heart was pure in this matter until you had that thought, Eugene. Let us go. Let us see merriment."
They left the castle and headed out into the streets of the city. Still holding fast to the spirit's robe, Flynn passed by the shops of Corona. Most of them were shuttered, their proprietors at home with their families and friends. Overactive children, all bundled up for the cold, occasionally darted through the streets, ringing bells and setting off firecrackers, wishing anyone they passed a merry Christmas before their parents called them home. Flynn stopped outside several windows and peered in at the dinners, dances, games, and parties that were taking place inside. Some families had more money and some less, but everywhere he looked, there was enjoyment, excitement, reflection, remembrance, and most of all, love. By the time they passed by the home of a couple with four redheaded children—Flynn remembered them from his first trip with Rapunzel into this city, when they had braided her then-blonde hair—he was feeling the excitement himself and wished he could go inside and join in.
"Spirit," he said happily, "if your lesson has been that I should learn to be merry again when the occasion calls for it, it was a success! I wish I could go right inside, into any one of these houses, and—and—and play cards, or chess, or charades, or any of the games we've seen tonight." He was smiling.
The Ghost of Christmas Present, however, looked grave, and Flynn noticed that his hair was less brown than before. Hints of gray showed in it now, and his face was becoming lined.
"Spirit?" he said in alarm. "What's happening to you?"
"My time on Earth is brief," the spirit said, "and it grows short. I have one more Christmas observance to show you tonight before I leave you."
Flynn felt a chill and a sense of foreboding. He suddenly feared what he was to be shown, but he did not gainsay the spirit. "Very well," he said uneasily. "Where is it?"
"At the Snuggly Duckling Tavern," the ghost said.
And with that, they seemed to fly through the night, away from the merry island kingdom toward the mainland, where the disreputable inn stood. In a second, the creaking, precariously leaning wooden tavern lay before their eyes.
"Shall we go inside?" the spirit said.
"I... suppose so," Flynn said nervously. He walked with the ghost into the dimly lit place, fully aware of what—or whom—he was about to see, and dreading it with every step.
Inside the place, the usual crowd of ruffians sat chuckling and bellowing across tables and the bar. Foaming mugs of beer were poured one by one and quickly imbibed by the over-large ruffians, and the innkeeper had even broken out a holiday treat—his stock of brandy and red wine. Cheers and toasts, most of them rather inebriated, filled the common room.
But what amazed Flynn was that food was laid out as well, and it was actually edible food. A huge roasted boar had been picked clean, as had a goose. A vat of stew that actually contained edible vegetables sat bubbling in the innkeeper's pot, though it was already half empty. Rolls—mostly burned on the bottom, but otherwise good to eat—were being buttered and tossed about. Hookhand was pounding out Christmas songs one after the other on the battered old piano, and the poor chained accordionist was accompanying him. Several of the more intoxicated ruffians were dancing in tune—or attempting to, anyway.
The Snuggly Duckling thugs, who would often be inclined to get into drunken bar brawls on other occasions even with each other, were simply spreading cheer in their own coarse, brash way. There was no violence. Flynn could hardly believe it.
In the center of the hubbub sat a short-haired brunette woman with large green eyes, her chair pulled up at a table with Big Nose and Shorty sitting next to her on either side. Her clothes consisted of a plain navy blue cotton dress covered in an apron—the clothes that she wore when working as a barmaid in this place. That was the job she had taken after she had left—no, Flynn corrected himself ashamedly in thought, after he had sent her out. But she seems to be eating well, at least, he thought as he gazed at her. She had filled out nicely.
Rapunzel was an island of politeness and good breeding in the midst of the rough crowd, but she seemed perfectly comfortable in their presence. She was eating goose and bread and vegetable stew delicately out of her earthenware. Flynn could not be sure of it, but he believed that the glass that sat before her plate contained punch rather than any alcoholic beverage. He wondered at that for a second.
And then Rapunzel stood up to get some more stew.
Flynn sucked in his breath at the sight before his eyes. It had been hidden beneath the shadows of the table when she was seated, but there was no question about it now. Her dress did not conceal the fact that she was very heavy with child.
Raw rage seemed to come over Flynn at this sight. He could hardly see straight. Turning to the spirit, he snarled, "Who did that to her? Which one of them's had her? I swear, I will beat the—"
"Calm yourself," the spirit said sharply. Flynn fell silent at once at the spirit's authoritative tone. He gazed up at the spirit with wide eyes, and the ghost continued, gazing down disapprovingly at its human companion. "No one has 'had' her. These ruffians have treated her far better than you did, and protected her from any who might abuse her—and there are many passing patrons who would do so, seeing a woman who is unmarried, alone, and pregnant. But that child is yours."
"Mine?" he croaked. His gaze shot back to the pretty young woman who was now returning to her seat with a fresh bowl of stew.
"The other Christmas spirit who visited you showed you your parting of six months ago," the ghost said. "She was trying to tell you about this, but you told her you did not care, and you showed her that you cared more about the jewelry she wore."
Flynn felt absolutely ashamed of himself. What had Rapunzel been going through for the past several months? He didn't even want to think about the verbal abuse she must have received, or—his stomach turned over—the passes made by vulgar males who saw her as a slut. Was this what the ghost of Mother Gothel had referred to when she said that he had done worse by Rapunzel than she herself had? And then there was that awful parting. He suddenly put himself in Rapunzel's place and considered what it would have sounded like from her point of view. If they had not split up, then by now they would have been married, and she would not have had to suffer through this—any of it. Grudgingly, he could begin to see Gothel's point. Flynn didn't know what to say, so he fell silent, watched, and listened as Rapunzel began to converse with the two ruffians who shared the table with her.
She took a sip of the stew and then quickly set her spoon down. "Oh, it's hot," she exclaimed, picking up her napkin and dabbing at the side of her mouth. And, Flynn noticed, at the corner of her eye—though she did it quickly, apparently hoping that her companions would not notice.
Shorty, the old man, was very drunk, and he did not notice anything. "And to that I say God bless us," he drawled, "every one."
Rapunzel smiled weakly at the old man's benediction, but her other companion was not so easily distracted. "I saw that," he said abruptly. He looked at her with a pitying frown. "I hope you're not thinking about him."
She glared back at Big Nose. "Of course not," she said, but the lie was unconvincing to anyone.
Big Nose shook his head. "Oh, Punz. You're still in love with him, aren't you?"
She looked down at the plate. A tear fell upon it, and, somehow, even in the middle of the commotion, Vladamir the bulky unicorn-collecting ruffian saw it. "What's going on over here?" he growled, stomping over to the table. "You makin' her cry, Ugly?"
"No," Big Nose said, offended. "She's makin' herself cry thinking about Rider."
Vladamir turned to Rapunzel, the anger not melting away from his face, but clearly not directed either at her or at the ruffians at her table. Flynn felt uneasy, knowing perfectly well it was aimed at him. Vladamir put a beefy arm around Rapunzel's gentle shoulder. The chameleon Pascal, who Flynn noticed for the first time, scurried out from behind her dress collar and scampered down her arm to get away.
"Listen up. Don't waste a thought on that no good, worthless..." Vladamir continued with a long trail of abusive, and increasingly profane, terms to describe Flynn. Looking on invisibly, he felt every one of them as if it were a physical stab to his body.
Rapunzel winced at some of them, and by the end of the stream of invective, she was not looking any happier. "But I just can't help but hope that he'll come back," she said softly.
"He won't," said another ruffian, whom Flynn identified as Gunther, the interior designer. "His kind don't know a thing about responsibility. You need to forget about him. We'll take care of you—and your kid."
Flynn felt a rush of jealousy at this. They shouldn't be doing that. No one should be doing that. That was his job. He focused on Gunther, and for the first time, he noticed that the ruffian had a mostly finished infant's high chair at his feet. Apparently he was making it for Rapunzel. Flynn felt another stab of jealousy.
"That's right," said the ruffian known as Bruiser. Flynn glanced at him and noticed that he too had a half-finished baby gift for Rapunzel—in his case, a white baby gown that he was knitting.
A bell began to toll slowly in the distance. Flynn turned to the Ghost of Christmas Present and noticed, with shock, that the spirit was now completely gray, and his face was grave, grim, and as lined as that of an old man. He met the ghost's blazing eyes, locking his own with them. And suddenly a horrible premonition came over him, as if by the mutual eye contact the ghost had imparted him with a vague sense of some event he himself had foreseen. A shiver rippled down Flynn's spine, a foreboding of something that he could not or would not name, but had to know.
The heavy bell tolled again.
"Spirit," he exclaimed, "I know your time must be growing very short, but tell me—what will happen to that—to my—to our child, being born in such a place as this?"
The Ghost was beginning to fade before Flynn's eyes, but his own blazed once more. "If these shadows remain unchanged by the future, I see the chair vacant and unused, and the clothing carefully placed upon a still form."
As the implications hit him, shock, horror, and loss rocked Flynn. He fell prostrate before the ghost, but it was fading away even faster. "No," he cried. "No, please no."
The bell tolled the last stroke, the stroke of twelve, and at that, the Ghost of Christmas Present vanished. The wind picked up suddenly, blowing bitterly cold snow and dirty leaves around. Flynn looked around frantically for his companion, but the spirit was gone. In its place was a tall, black-hooded phantom drawing near.