Stave Two: The First of the Transcendental Troublemakers
Roger Smith might never have seen light, but he knew its absence, and when he woke up the windows were so dark it made his clothing look cheerful in comparison. He frowned. It was impossible to tell what time of day it was...without a piano playing.
He groped for the clock, but Norman, in his haste to leave "early", must have forgotten to wind them one last time. Roger frowned. That's the last time he goes home early, the negotiator thought.
He began to wind the clock himself, with a big enough sigh that one could tell it was an effort.
"What the..." Before his eyes, the clock struck twelve, beating like a heart in his hands, in complete defiance of his efforts to correct it.
"The damn thing's broken," Roger swore, just as the chimes of a nearby clock tower struck twelve. Shocked, Roger threw the bedclothes aside and strode towards the window. Rubbing away the frost with the cuff of his black silk pajamas, the empty clock tower's face smirked back at him through the glass.
No clock! No bells! How could this be?
The thought of the living-impaired Dorothy on the landing returned to him. He returned to bed and puzzled over it, and over it, and over it. No matter how he tried to scrunch away from the questions, he found they had gotten there first and were waiting for him.
The bells continued to strike, the quarter, the half, almost like a lullaby. Roger yawned and closed his eyes...
The noise from the closet made them snap back open.
It was soft and discordant against Roger's rapid breathing. He could have sworn he'd checked the closets...
The fireplace poker suggested itself to him and he took it in hand as he sneaked towards the closet.
"Lame..." a voice intoned from the closet. A thump followed. "Lame..."
Roger cocked an eyebrow in confusion, then flung open the door with a cry of, "Ha!"
A pair of pants whapped him in the face.
"What the-" Roger dropped the poker just in time for a dinner jacket to arrange itself on his head.
A figure was in the closet, its back to him. In contrast to the dark of the closet, it glowed a brilliant, dazzling gold. "Lame..." it repeated, throwing a black tie he had once received for Heaven's Day over its shoulder. It reached for a leather jacket, tilting its golden head and squinting at it. "Well, maybe," it said, turning to face Roger.
After having pronounced in favor of the leather jacket, it looked Roger up and down and snorted.
Roger wanted to know how the man had ended up in his closet, but what he ended up asking was, "Are you the spirit whose coming Dorothy foretold to me?"
A strange lopsided smirk from the spirit. "That I am, my friend." His voice was arrogant and timeless and was akin to having one's teeth drilled.
"Who are you?"
"I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past," the golden spirit said.
"What past?"
"Your past," the spirit answered. "Believe me, I know all about the past. I know as far back as you can remember, even back when...THIS was in style." The spirit dropped a shirt on the floor, wiping his fingers on his jacket as if he'd touched something unclean.
Roger squinted. "Could you maybe stop glowing? It's hurting my eyes."
"You could use a little color," the spirit retorted, stepping out of the closet. "It's your own fault for cloaking yourself in darkness, Crow-Boy."
Roger would have immediately come up with a hot retort, but in his anger the spirit had started to glow even brighter, and the negotiator shrank from it as Superman might from kryptonite.
"Please, what do you want?" Roger finally said, almost pleadingly.
"Relax, I come in peace," the spirit drawled. "What I want is your welfare."
"In that case, you shouldn't have woken me up," Roger muttered, still sore over being called Crow-Boy.
The spirit frowned and suddenly seized Roger's wrist. "All right, I've had enough of you. Let's go."
Roger protested. "It's freezing out there! At least let me put on a bathrobe."
The spirit considered this. "Is it black?"
"Yes."
"Then forget it." And with that the spirit rose off the floor, dragging Roger with him. Roger barely had time to grab for the bathrobe and his slippers (which had been chewed by a certain kitten...) before they rose to the ceiling.
"Hey--!" Roger sputtered, but it was too late to protest. Roger shut his eyes as they headed for the closed window, certain he would be splatted like a bug on a windshield, but they passed right through the window, and suddenly Roger found they were in the heart of the city.
The golden spirit set them down on the sidewalk, then leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.
Roger looked around as shoppers hurried beneath the bright Heaven's Day decorations. The lights glowed above like captive stars, though not half as bright as the spirit smoking against the wall.
Roger sighed. "I'm not really dressed for this."
The spirit snorted. "Tell me about it."
Roger was about to deliver a hot retort when his own voice interrupted him.
"Dorothy."
He saw his younger self trudging towards him, Dorothy nearly trotting to keep up. He was mildly surprised at the sight of her without a coal scuttle balanced in her left hand.
"You don't like Heaven's Day?" Dorothy asked past-Roger.
Roger watched as his younger self denounced the meanings of Heaven's Day to the android. The spirit snorted again. "Fashion sense hasn't changed a bit since then. Pathetic!"
They followed the past Dorothy and Roger to the gloomy mansion, where Roger snarled at Dorothy for asking silly questions about the upcoming holiday.
"Will you be giving anyone a present for Heaven's Day?" the android asked.
"I can't take it any more!" Roger snarled to the spirit. "Get me out of here!"
"One shadow more, in a life of shadows," the spirit said.
Even as Roger cried No, they had moved ahead to see her dancing, admiring her new black coat, twirling fast and then faster as the gathers of her dress unfolded, opening her like a flower. The snow fell about her as she spun, like a blessing in the night. She looked almost alive.
It was nearly impossible to reconcile this image with the burning stove in the dark of the mansion.
Roger felt a twinge of guilt. He turned away from the dancing girl, to the soft gentle glow of the guide who had brought him to this lonely place. "Spirit, show me no more. I cannot bear it."
"Sorry, Crow-Boy. I can't change your fashion sense, and you can't change the past!" The spirit pointed a golden finger at him, glowing bright and then brighter. "It is what it is. No money, no power, no darkness can hide the lights of the past!"
"Remove me from this place!" Roger snarled. "Leave me! Go appear on someone's Ouija board. Haunt me no more!"
With an animal howl of rage Roger Smith threw his bathrobe over the spirit, hiding the blinding golden light. Darkness swallowed the pair...
Roger barely had time to register that he was back in the safety of his bedchamber before collapsing amidst the twisted bedclothes, noting how nice and dark the backs of his eyelids were.
Roger Smith might never have seen light, but he knew its absence, and when he woke up the windows were so dark it made his clothing look cheerful in comparison. He frowned. It was impossible to tell what time of day it was...without a piano playing.
He groped for the clock, but Norman, in his haste to leave "early", must have forgotten to wind them one last time. Roger frowned. That's the last time he goes home early, the negotiator thought.
He began to wind the clock himself, with a big enough sigh that one could tell it was an effort.
"What the..." Before his eyes, the clock struck twelve, beating like a heart in his hands, in complete defiance of his efforts to correct it.
"The damn thing's broken," Roger swore, just as the chimes of a nearby clock tower struck twelve. Shocked, Roger threw the bedclothes aside and strode towards the window. Rubbing away the frost with the cuff of his black silk pajamas, the empty clock tower's face smirked back at him through the glass.
No clock! No bells! How could this be?
The thought of the living-impaired Dorothy on the landing returned to him. He returned to bed and puzzled over it, and over it, and over it. No matter how he tried to scrunch away from the questions, he found they had gotten there first and were waiting for him.
The bells continued to strike, the quarter, the half, almost like a lullaby. Roger yawned and closed his eyes...
The noise from the closet made them snap back open.
It was soft and discordant against Roger's rapid breathing. He could have sworn he'd checked the closets...
The fireplace poker suggested itself to him and he took it in hand as he sneaked towards the closet.
"Lame..." a voice intoned from the closet. A thump followed. "Lame..."
Roger cocked an eyebrow in confusion, then flung open the door with a cry of, "Ha!"
A pair of pants whapped him in the face.
"What the-" Roger dropped the poker just in time for a dinner jacket to arrange itself on his head.
A figure was in the closet, its back to him. In contrast to the dark of the closet, it glowed a brilliant, dazzling gold. "Lame..." it repeated, throwing a black tie he had once received for Heaven's Day over its shoulder. It reached for a leather jacket, tilting its golden head and squinting at it. "Well, maybe," it said, turning to face Roger.
After having pronounced in favor of the leather jacket, it looked Roger up and down and snorted.
Roger wanted to know how the man had ended up in his closet, but what he ended up asking was, "Are you the spirit whose coming Dorothy foretold to me?"
A strange lopsided smirk from the spirit. "That I am, my friend." His voice was arrogant and timeless and was akin to having one's teeth drilled.
"Who are you?"
"I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past," the golden spirit said.
"What past?"
"Your past," the spirit answered. "Believe me, I know all about the past. I know as far back as you can remember, even back when...THIS was in style." The spirit dropped a shirt on the floor, wiping his fingers on his jacket as if he'd touched something unclean.
Roger squinted. "Could you maybe stop glowing? It's hurting my eyes."
"You could use a little color," the spirit retorted, stepping out of the closet. "It's your own fault for cloaking yourself in darkness, Crow-Boy."
Roger would have immediately come up with a hot retort, but in his anger the spirit had started to glow even brighter, and the negotiator shrank from it as Superman might from kryptonite.
"Please, what do you want?" Roger finally said, almost pleadingly.
"Relax, I come in peace," the spirit drawled. "What I want is your welfare."
"In that case, you shouldn't have woken me up," Roger muttered, still sore over being called Crow-Boy.
The spirit frowned and suddenly seized Roger's wrist. "All right, I've had enough of you. Let's go."
Roger protested. "It's freezing out there! At least let me put on a bathrobe."
The spirit considered this. "Is it black?"
"Yes."
"Then forget it." And with that the spirit rose off the floor, dragging Roger with him. Roger barely had time to grab for the bathrobe and his slippers (which had been chewed by a certain kitten...) before they rose to the ceiling.
"Hey--!" Roger sputtered, but it was too late to protest. Roger shut his eyes as they headed for the closed window, certain he would be splatted like a bug on a windshield, but they passed right through the window, and suddenly Roger found they were in the heart of the city.
The golden spirit set them down on the sidewalk, then leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.
Roger looked around as shoppers hurried beneath the bright Heaven's Day decorations. The lights glowed above like captive stars, though not half as bright as the spirit smoking against the wall.
Roger sighed. "I'm not really dressed for this."
The spirit snorted. "Tell me about it."
Roger was about to deliver a hot retort when his own voice interrupted him.
"Dorothy."
He saw his younger self trudging towards him, Dorothy nearly trotting to keep up. He was mildly surprised at the sight of her without a coal scuttle balanced in her left hand.
"You don't like Heaven's Day?" Dorothy asked past-Roger.
Roger watched as his younger self denounced the meanings of Heaven's Day to the android. The spirit snorted again. "Fashion sense hasn't changed a bit since then. Pathetic!"
They followed the past Dorothy and Roger to the gloomy mansion, where Roger snarled at Dorothy for asking silly questions about the upcoming holiday.
"Will you be giving anyone a present for Heaven's Day?" the android asked.
"I can't take it any more!" Roger snarled to the spirit. "Get me out of here!"
"One shadow more, in a life of shadows," the spirit said.
Even as Roger cried No, they had moved ahead to see her dancing, admiring her new black coat, twirling fast and then faster as the gathers of her dress unfolded, opening her like a flower. The snow fell about her as she spun, like a blessing in the night. She looked almost alive.
It was nearly impossible to reconcile this image with the burning stove in the dark of the mansion.
Roger felt a twinge of guilt. He turned away from the dancing girl, to the soft gentle glow of the guide who had brought him to this lonely place. "Spirit, show me no more. I cannot bear it."
"Sorry, Crow-Boy. I can't change your fashion sense, and you can't change the past!" The spirit pointed a golden finger at him, glowing bright and then brighter. "It is what it is. No money, no power, no darkness can hide the lights of the past!"
"Remove me from this place!" Roger snarled. "Leave me! Go appear on someone's Ouija board. Haunt me no more!"
With an animal howl of rage Roger Smith threw his bathrobe over the spirit, hiding the blinding golden light. Darkness swallowed the pair...
Roger barely had time to register that he was back in the safety of his bedchamber before collapsing amidst the twisted bedclothes, noting how nice and dark the backs of his eyelids were.
