A CHRISTMAS TALE IN 25 PARTS: PART TWENTY-THREE

Because death is still, as far as any of us can tell, forever, Old Marley still walks the Earth, and he also has a long, long memory, which means, in many ways, that he is in a stronger position than any of us to observe the results of his actions, and to consider the benefits of moving just one of the tiniest of pieces in the great chessboard of life.

Marley walked a hundred years ago, he walks now, and he will still be walking long after the last human has dropped off this mortal coil. The only advantage the Marley of the far future has over the versions we might have contact with in earlier times, is that he has already witnessed everything they did, and remembered it, and has been around long enough to witness the various outcomes and results of his actions.

So, like him, perhaps this is as good a moment as any for us to pause, reflect and philosophise upon the things which we have been perhaps unwilling witnesses to during the series of events which occurred in our little tale as it unfolded over these past three weeks or so. If there is ever likely to be any kind of a moral to this insignificant odyssey which we have journeyed through together, it’s most likely to be found here.

Could, for example, the changes which seem to be occurring to the person we might consider to be the “present day” Mr Snatch mean that future isn’t quite as bleakly painted for his descendant…? Would a sea-change in his own philosophy mean that he changes his ways enough to ensure that the barbarians are no longer at the gates and threatening to tear the whole of civilisation down...? If he fails to survive his sudden plunge from the remains of his own high tower, will the future be irrevocably reshaped by the fact that his offspring fail to be even born…?

We haven’t addressed the knotty little question about how the various Messrs Snatch have managed to produce this chain of miserable souls, despite them all seeming to be such unpromising prospects for any young woman seeking love, if that is what they are seeking, or find most attractive about this fabulously wealthy family line.

We do, of course, know that there have already been a number of previous women who have borne the name, however briefly, of “Mrs Snatch” to the current incumbent, but we have not really considered whether there are already any little Snatches running around and biting the ankles of those whom they are ultimately set to replace.

Perhaps this future is already shaped, or perhaps it remains as fluid as the thickening air through which Mr Snatch is currently plunging, where the gravity might still be unfortunately working, but perhaps without its usual efficiency.

There are some other, perhaps bigger questions to consider, too. Petty, fiddling little things upon which we might like to mull like “Will the world die?”

Well, of course, one day it will. These things, whilst perhaps not quite the sorts of things we like to dwell upon as we arrive at Chrimbletide and tick away another year in the long journey towards the inevitable, are unavoidable. We just prefer to choose not to think about them, and realise that in our short human spans, we are unlikely to live long enough to see them, but, if the actions of one man are significant enough, perhaps we ought to give at least some consideration to the fact that we might.

Because, if this story is to be about anything, perhaps it is not so much about redemption, nor is it about the bleakness of that future, or whether the world as we know it lives or dies, but merely about how those things might happen. There may very well be a bleak future, and it might very well be just around the corner or a million years away, but how it is shaped rather depends upon what we choose to do right now rather than leaving it to somebody else to sort out.

How we arrive at the future, and what shape we find it in, is largely down to us, and people like us, and we all have the opportunity to pause, to reflect, to take a moment to consider the consequences of our actions and see whether we can do anything now to make the outcome for everyone else as pleasant as it could be, instead of choosing the path which is easiest, or which brings along with it the most hurt for someone else.

Speaking of which, back in the trivial world of this humble storytelling offering, there is the other tiny matter of the fate of Olive and, to a lesser or greater extent dependent upon your own philosophy on such things, Mitsy. What is to become of them as they remain sitting outside in the deepest, darkest cold of just before the dawn?

And what, if anything, has any of this got to do with Christmas…?

Ah well, you see. I personally struggle to find the joy of the season myself, which means that any Christmas tale which I can think up to share with you is likely to be at least a slightly cynical piece, and so, whilst this dark little tale might, ultimately, have the best of intentions and, perhaps, contain a shining diamond in the midst of all the coal, it’s always likely to be the darkness surrounding these joyous events which is most likely to draw my attention. As ever, I don’t know whether I write well, but I do know that I write, and this is the kind of thing that I seem to write about.

Finally, we might ask ourselves whether it was, in fact, all a dream, which is, of course, is always the ultimate cop-out when the various strings in the cat’s cradle of a story start to get too knotted, and the imagination starts to run out, but it is something that you might wish to keep in mind as we return our thoughts to the fate of the still-plummeting Mr Snatch.

Tomorrow.