I've been playing Paul Stanley's Three More Visitors game, released in 2011 as part of the Speed-IF.
Here is my transcript :
Christmas Eve! You tell Bob to go home early; tidy up a little, and lock up the office shortly after four. You look on the old brass plate, which still reads "Scrooge & Marley", probably for the last time.
*
Here is my transcript :
Christmas Eve! You tell Bob to go home early; tidy up a little, and lock up the office shortly after four. You look on the old brass plate, which still reads "Scrooge & Marley", probably for the last time.
After
visiting the engravers to pick up your package, you spend a few hours
simply walking the busy streets, soaking in the happy anticipation all
around. Then a simple, but magnificent, dinner at Kettners and a gentle
stroll home. Time for bed.
Three More Visitors
A Speed-IF Melodrama for New Year
by Paul Stanley
Release 2 (2012-01-10)
Inform v6.32 / Platypus release 4+
Courtyard
Not
everyone is complimentary about this courtyard, or the house whose
front door you now face. "A gloomy set of rooms" it has been called. But
it has been your home these many years; it was the site, a decade past
to this very day, of the great visions that changed your life forever.
And so here you stay, and here you expect to end your days. The door is
north.
>x courtyard
Courtyard
Not
everyone is complimentary about this courtyard, or the house whose
front door you now face. "A gloomy set of rooms" it has been called. But
it has been your home these many years; it was the site, a decade past
to this very day, of the great visions that changed your life forever.
And so here you stay, and here you expect to end your days. The door is
north.
>x door
A
plain black door, dusted with soot, like any of a thousand plain dusty
doors in this plain dusty city. A large door knocker sits in the centre,
surrounded by a holly wreath.
>x house
A
huge old house. Your late partner, Jacob Marley lived here until he
died, and you have lived here ever since. You keep a small suite of
rooms on the first floor, having given the rest over to your nephew and
his family -- but they are out of town visiting your brother for
Christmas. They begged you to go with them, but you have your own plans:
you always visit the Cratchits for Christmas, and this year you have a
most particular reason to keep that appointment.
>think about jacob
You'll have to do that yourself.
Whisps of frosty mist nuzzle into the corners of the yard.
>think about cratchits
You'll have to do that yourself.
>i
You are carrying:
a door key
a package
>x package
You
picked it up from the engravers earlier. The package is about six
inches wide, and eight inches long, wrapped in brown paper and tied with
string. The label on it reads "E Scrooge Esq, to await collection".
It's rather heavy. You catch a strange, sweet smell, carried on the
mist.
>smell
A
cold mist licks around the courtyard, smelling of damp and smoke -- and
some other scent too, a sickly, cloying smell that you cannot quite
place.
>l
Courtyard
Not
everyone is complimentary about this courtyard, or the house whose
front door you now face. "A gloomy set of rooms" it has been called. But
it has been your home these many years; it was the site, a decade past
to this very day, of the great visions that changed your life forever.
And so here you stay, and here you expect to end your days. The door is
north.
>n
(opening the door)
(unlocking the door)
As
you push the door open and enter, you stop for a moment to look at the
knocker. Who knows why, for you see it every day -- morning and evening,
and it is unremarkable enough. But you can't forget how, on this very
evening a decade ago, you saw it transformed into the very image of your
late partner Jacob Marley: the first of the very strange and
disconcerting events of that wonderfully disconcerting night.
So
you glance at the knocker now, and you are shocked to see it, again,
assume a once-familiar appearance. But this time the face is not
Marley's, but almost your own, though one you have not seen for twenty,
even thirty, years. It is the face of your brother, Mordecai.
Shivering
slightly (whether from the cold, or the disconcerting behaviour of your
door knocker, you could not say) you go through the door, light the
candle that stands ready on the hall table, lock the door carefully
behind you and climb the wide staircase to your chamber.
Bedroom
A
leopard never quite changes its spots, and your bedroom is still plain
by most standards, but that is how you like it. Nevertheless, you allow
yourself a few hints of comfort if not luxury. The heavy green brocade
curtains are closed. Your table has a few papers on it. Your bed is
ready for you. The door, leading east, is closed.
>x papers
The
papers are scattered on the table. You really should talk to Lucinda
about cleaning up -- since she has been walking out with the Jameson boy
she has become quite distracted. The only one of any moment is the
letter you received this morning from your attorneys.
>read letter
Jarboe & Bungay
45 New Square
Lincoln's Inn
23rd December 1853
My Dear Mr Scrooge,
As
presently drawn, your will leaves your whole estate to your brothers,
and their issue. In practical terms, that means to your nephew and (if
he still lives) your brother Mordecai.
We
understand that you wish to amend the provisions of your will. Mr
Robert Cratchit is to become a partner in the firm of Scrooge &
Marley, and he is to inherit the partnership absolutely, the rest of
your estate passing to your nephew.
We
have accordingly prepared a revised will and partnership deed. If you
would be good enough to raise the matter with Mr Cratchit, we look
forward to seeing you on the twenty-seventh of this month, at our
offices, at eleven o'clock in the forenoon, where the documents can be
executed.
I beg to remain, Sir, your obedient and humble servant,
Wm Jarboe.
>get letter
You take the letter.
>l
Bedroom
The
heavy green brocade curtains are closed. Your table has a few papers on
it. Your bed is ready for you. The door, leading east, is closed.
Late as it is, you think you hear footsteps outside the window.
>x bed
An
ancient four-poster, old-fashioned and heavily carved. Its only notable
feature is the ancient tapestry which forms its canopy -- a a huge sun,
its rays splashed to the four corners. The sheets and comforter are
turned back.
You can definitely hear voices: indistinct, but it sounds like an old man and a young man.
>listen
You hear low voices in the yard, though it's hard to make out most of what they say.
Outside the window, a coarse, sly old voice. "You lad, where are you going?"
>look through window
(opening the curtains)
A the entrance to the yard, a pale youth is talking to an old man in a shabby top-coat with an astrakhan collar.
It's hard to make out more than a few words: something about "Mr Scrooge" and "the compliments of the season".
>d
You can't go that way. The door is east -- though you feel no desire to leave your room now.
The older man says something, but you can't make it out.
>e
You've no inclination to wander around the dark house.
The
younger voice is raised indignantly, and you catch a few words --
"mistaken ... kind gentleman". Suddenly you recognise the voice: It is
Bob Cratchit's son, Tiny Tim.
>talk to bob
That can only be done to something animate.
>talk to tiny tim
You can't see any such thing.
>l
Bedroom
The
heavy green brocade curtains are open. Your table has a few papers on
it. Your bed is ready for you. The door, leading east, is closed.
>open door
You open the bedroom door.
The old man is talking: "... grasping ... miserly ... I have found him out ..."
>e
You've no inclination to wander around the dark house.
The
old man is talks, low and secretive. You can make out few words --
"Jarboe" perhaps and "visit". How can he know about Mr Jarboe's visit to
you?
>scream
You think better of it; you need to hear what is being planned.
Tiny Tim's voice, quite clear: "Yes, Sir, I know that he visited, for my father told me of his visit."
>z
Time passes.
You cannot hear what the old man is saying.
>z
Time passes.
>listen
You hear low voices in the yard, though it's hard to make out most of what they say.
You
wish you could hear what the old man is saying. Something about
Italians? Something about a business that is to be sold? Something about
Bob Cratchit being put out of the door?
>listen
You hear low voices in the yard, though it's hard to make out most of what they say.
Young Tim's voice, clear as a bell: "Is there nothing that can be done to stop him?"
>g
You hear low voices in the yard, though it's hard to make out most of what they say.
The old man is speaking in reassuring tones, but you can't catch any of the words.
>g
You hear low voices in the yard, though it's hard to make out most of what they say.
The old man reaches his hand into his pocket, and hands something to Tim Cratchit.
>g
You hear low voices in the yard, though it's hard to make out most of what they say.
The older man is talking excitedly. Something about a "concoction", something about slipping it into a drink.
>g
You hear low voices in the yard, though it's hard to make out most of what they say.
"Very well, Sir," you hear the Cratchit boy say, "I will do it."
>g
You hear low voices in the yard, though it's hard to make out most of what they say.
The old man says something, and taps his nose, but you cannot catch the words.
>g
You hear low voices in the yard, though it's hard to make out most of what they say.
The voices fade.
>g
All is silence, apart from the usual sounds of the city.
You feel very tired. It is time to go to sleep.
>sleep
You blow out the candle, and get into bed then settle down to go to sleep.
[Press Any Key]
You
wake with a start. What is it that woke you? Perhaps only the church
bell, chiming ... one ... two ... three-quarters ... no, the hour. One
o'clock. You sit up in bed, alert as a cat before a mousehole.
>l
Bedroom (in the bed)
The
heavy green brocade curtains are open. Your table has a few papers on
it and a number of other objects besides. The door, leading east, is
closed.
The
door creaks open, and light -- as of a giant candle -- floods the room.
And there, on the threshold, he stands. A spirit you have not seen for
ten years, and yet familiar to you: the Ghost of Christmas Past.
>x ghost
A
strange little person, in a white shift and a tall hat like a
candle-snuffer, from under which light shines out. His appearence is
mutable and inconstant; as you look at him now he resembles a portly old
gentleman.
>talk to ghost
"I know you, spirit," you say. "I remember you."
"I am the spirit of Christmas past. Your past!"
>g
"What is it you have come to show me?" you ask.
"I am here to show you a beginning," says the ghost. "We are going to trace a noxious river to its poisoned source."
>g
"What must I do, then?"
"Just walk through the door."
"What?
I can tell you what is outside the door: nothing but my own staircase,
up which I climbed not much more than an hour ago!"
"So you may think," the spirit says enigmatically. "But you might be surprised."
>g
The spirit stays silent, and merely gestures towards the door.
The spirit gestures towards the door.
>go out
You get out of the bed.
Bedroom
The
heavy green brocade curtains are open. Your table has a few papers on
it and a number of other objects besides. Your bed is ready for you. The
door is open to the east.
The ghost of Christmas past stands in the doorway.
The spirit gestures towards the door.
>out
The
spirit ushers you through the door. But you feel yourself changed,
diminished somehow. And instead of the staircase, you find yourself in a
quite different place -- a room once just as well-known, but which you
have not thought about these many years.
Parlour
Your
mother's parlour, a cosy little room, spotlessly clean and smelling of
wax and lavender. Sunlight is splashing bright patterns on the rug. Your
mother is resting on her chaise longue.
A wooden box lies on the rug.
Your mother has kicked off her shoes, which lie beside the sofa.
>x mother
Earlier
this morning you heard your father shouting at your mother. She must
have been naughty, you suppose, for Father has had to hit her. She has
been sobbing. And now she is lying on the chaise longue, resting with
her eyes closed
>greet mother
That's not a verb I recognise.
>talk to mother
She is asleep.
>wake mother up
You should let her sleep. She needs to rest.
>x box
A
wooden box, about as long as your arm, and half as wide. There are
letters burned into it. Because you are your mother's clever boy, you
can read those letters. "E. PEEN: TOYMAKER". Your mother has given this
box to you for Christmas, because you have been good all year. The box
is closed.
>open it
You open the wooden box, revealing your toy hammer, your wooden peg and your wooden saw.
>take all
You take your mother's shoes and the wooden box.
>x shoes
Your mother's brown leather walking shoes.
The door opens, and a boy -- dressed just as you are in a sailor suit -- comes in: your twin brother, Mordecai.
>x mordecai
To
a superficial glance -- or indeed, to even the most penetrating
inspection by anyone other than your family -- there is no difference
whatever between you and Mordecai. Not physically; but morally, in
spirit, as souls -- you could not be more different.
Mordecai comes over. "I want that hammer, Ben," he says. "Give it to me now!"
>no
"No!"
you say. "This is mine, and you are not having it." Mordecai stops
momentarily, surpised that you are not immediately compliant.
>take hammer
You take the toy hammer.
Mordecai grabs the hammer from you. "Mine!" he says.
"No, Mordecai, it is mine. Mother gave it to me. I have been a good boy all year. You have not."
"Good boys get given presents. Bad boys take them!"
>i
You are carrying:
a wooden box (which is open)
your wooden peg
your wooden saw
your mother's shoes
Mordecai
advances towards you with his hammer held high. "Now I have taken
this," he says, "you must give me all your toys. You must do as I say or
I will beat you and smash you, you vile boy." As he says those words
"vile boy" he sounds just like Father. That is just what Father always
says.
>attack mordecai
He dodges your blow.
Mordecai
brings the hammer crashing down on your head, with a crack. For a
moment you feel nothing. Then you find yourself on the floor. Your face
is sticky, and your mouth tastes of sweet iron. Your brother, as usual,
has made himself scarce.
>l
Parlour
Your
mother's parlour, a cosy little room, spotlessly clean and smelling of
wax and lavender. Sunlight is splashing bright patterns on the rug. Your
mother is resting on her chaise longue.
Your
mother stirs, and wakes. She looks down at you, and shrieks. "What on
earth has happened, little Ben?" she says. "What have you done? Your
face is covered in blood!"
>tell mother about mordecai
To
converse in this game, use TALK TO [PERSON] (though in certain special
situations, when you are asked a specific question, YES and NO could be
useful).
>talk to mother
You sob.
Your
mother gathers you up in her arms. You feel her tears mixing with
yours, and with the blood that covers your face. You turn to kiss her.
As your lips touch her cheek she seems to liquify, like wax at a candle
wick. And with her everything in the room seems to liquify too: chaise,
rug, toys, all pouring away, until there is just you, and the spirit, in
an empty room.
Parlour
Still,
apparently, your mother's parlour -- or at least a room its size, and
its shape, and with its window and door; but sadly altered. Dust and
shadows have spread themselves thickly on every surface, and crept into
every corner. The furniture is gone -- the floor bare apart from the
rug, which incongruously remains. The door is west.
The ghost of Christmas past stands in the middle of the room.
>x rug
A threadbare carpet, faded red and blue -- and much stained.
>lift it
That's not a verb I recognise.
>take rug
The rug isn't something you can carry around.
>w
As
you step towards the door, you feel the room you are leaving dissolve
into shadow, and the spirit with it. No way back now. You must return
(you know it) to the present -- or at least to some possible version of
the present. You are half expecting the sight that next meets your eyes
...
[Press any key]
Bedroom
Your
room is transformed. The ceiling is hung with great boughs of holly,
the berries glistening in the light of hundreds of candles. All around
the room are piles of wonderful food: hams, great roasts, gilded
turkies, piles of sugar plums and oranges, chocolates and candy-canes. A
vast table is set with a white damask cloth, laden with dishes. In the
midst of this a man with a deep green robe and a vast beard reclines on
your bed, his head surrounded by a garland of ivy: the ghost of
Christmas present.
The ghost of Christmas present lounges on your bed, bathed in brilliant sunlight from the canopy.
>x ghost
A
giant of a man, with ruddy cheeks, chestnut curls and an auburn beard.
He wears a holly-green velvet robe, trimmed with ermine.
>talk to him
"I
recognise you, spirit," you say. "You are the Ghost of Christmas Past. I
remember meeting you -- ten years ago now, and the good you did me
then."
"Not I," replies the giant, "for I can be here just one Christmastide, and never again; but one of my brothers no doubt."
>g
"Why
are you here? I am a changed man. There's not a man in London more
devoted to you than I am. I have no further need of your help."
"So
you might think," the spirit replies. "But you do need my help tonight:
not to save you, this time, from yourself; but to save you, and others,
from harm."
>g
"What sort of harm, spirit? And what should I do?"
"I will show you," says the Ghost. "Touch my robe, and I will show you."
>touch robe
As
your hand brushes the spirit's robe, he takes you firmly by the hand.
He opens the window, and, safe in his firm grasp you are launched
headlong into the air.
You soar over tightly-packed streets through a grey London dawn.
A street in Camden
Frost
glistens on the flagstones, and on the identical doorsteps of the
identical houses in this neatly nondescript street. You stand outside
number 17. Cast iron railings surround a basement area, painted black
like every other house; a neat front door and whitened step. It is the
house where your clerk, Bob Cratchit, lives with his family. The great
City lies to the south. Steps lead down to the basement area.
Someone has dropped a sixpenny piece on the ground.
>x flagstones
Decorated with frost for Christmas.
>x houses
Not
a wealthy area, to be sure -- but comfortable, prosperous, solid.
Middling people, in middling houses, living middling lives of
respectable domesticity.
>x piece
A silver sixpence.
>get it
You take the sixpence.
>knock on door
The spirit stops you. "You are not bidden here, and I cannot think you would be welcome," he says.
What can he mean? You have been welcome here for many years.
>talk to ghost
"I do not understand," you say. "This is a house at which I have always been a most welcome guest?"
"You?" says the spirit. "I think not. Ebenezer Scrooge has always been welcome; but not you."
>g
"Why have you brought me here?" you ask.
"Ask rather who it is I have brought here," he replies. "Once you understand that, the rest will be clear."
>g
"I do not understand you," you complain.
"That,"
says the ghost, "does not matter. My purpose is not that you understand
me, but that you understand this." He gestures to the house.
>g
"What should I do, then?" you ask.
"The front door is barred to you; perhaps there is another way of finding out what is going on in the house," he replies.
>d
Basement yard
Like
so many London houses, Bob Cratchit's is set half-down into the ground,
with a dingy basement yard with space to store coal, and ash, and
rubbish. Overlooking this dreary scene is the window of what you know is
the kitchen, although it's so covered in thick frost that you can't see
anything through it at the moment.
The spirit stands just behind you.
>talk to spirit
"The reason I have brought you here is beyond that window," says the ghost.
>g
"The reason I have brought you here is beyond that window," says the ghost.
"Do you think I brought you all this way for nothing?" says the ghost. "There is something here you need to see."
>clear window
The frosty window isn't something you can carry around.
>rub window
You rub at the frost. It burns your hands, but you manage to clear a small area, through which you can peep.
>look through window
You
look into the Cratchits' kitchen. It is set for Christmas, with various
delicacies arrayed on the table. Beyond it is a door through which you
can see into the back parlour.
As you watch, you see a young man come in. It is Tiny Tim.
>look through window
Tim ladles two generous helpings of the punch into pewter mugs, and carries them through to the room beyond.
>look through window
The
two men in the parlour raise their mugs. Oddly you have a premonition
of what is to follow. More oddly still, instead of willing yourself to
drop the mug on the floor, or throw it in the fire, you find yourself
hoping that you will drink it. You find yourself taking positive
pleasure in what you know will be a disaster. It is as if you are not
yourself. As if you are a second version of yourself, and wish yourself
harm.
>look through window
The
draught takes its effect. You and Bob look to be in excruciating agony.
You grasp at your throats, tear at your collars and neckscarves, as the
fatal liquid tears at your bowels. And yet you, Ebenezer Scrooge, watch
your own death-pangs not merely dispassionately, but with positive
delight.
>look through window
You
and Bob lie quite still now. Anyone who knows death could say,
instantly, that you are both quite dead. And watching this you feel not
(as you should, as you know you should) horrified at your own demise and
at the painful death of a beloved friend, but elated.
>look through window
Tim
rushes over to his father. He bends over to listen to his father's
breath. He reaches to feel his father's pulse. He tears the clothes from
his father's chest, and puts his ear to it, listening for a heartbeat.
All in vain. With tears streaming from his face he stands over the body.
>look through window
Tim dashes from the room, and you see him no more.
>look through window
Mrs
Cratchit's tidy kitchen is empty. Beyond it you can see into the back
parlour. Two corpses lie there: your own, and Bob Cratchit's.
>look through window
Mrs
Cratchit's tidy kitchen is empty. Beyond it you can see into the back
parlour. Two corpses lie there: your own, and Bob Cratchit's.
Above
you, you hear the front door open then slam shut. A limping step works
its way down to the street; you hear the tapping of a crutch as the
steps recede.
>u
A street in Camden
Frost
glistens on the flagstones, and on the identical doorsteps of the
identical houses in this neatly nondescript street. You stand outside
number 17. Cast iron railings surround a basement area, painted black
like every other house; a neat front door and whitened step. It is the
house where your clerk, Bob Cratchit, lives with his family. The great
City lies to the south. Steps lead down to the basement area.
The figure of Tiny Tim fades into the distance.
>follow tim
That's not a verb I recognise.
>l
A street in Camden
Frost
glistens on the flagstones, and on the identical doorsteps of the
identical houses in this neatly nondescript street. You stand outside
number 17. Cast iron railings surround a basement area, painted black
like every other house; a neat front door and whitened step. It is the
house where your clerk, Bob Cratchit, lives with his family. The great
City lies to the south. Steps lead down to the basement area.
The
spirit reaches towards you and touches you. As he does so you watch his
arm shrivel, his robe darken. Before long you find yourself looking at a
different ghost altogether -- a loose grey robe with a great cowl,
which completely obscures the features of whoever, or whatever, is
within. Only two piercing dark eyes, unblinking, give assurance (no, not
so much assurance, "warrant" then) that the figure is more than a great
empty sack. The ghost of Christmas future leans on a long, slender
staff of bone or ivory, gripping it with a talon-like gloved hand.
[Press any key]
A street in Limehouse
Dusk
is falling on the tightly-packed warehouses, taverns and doss-houses of
Limehouse. To the south you can hear the gentle slapping of the river,
the creaking of wet timber on piers and jetties. In this insalubrious
alley, windows are either boarded or broken, or caked with dirt. To the
west is an open doorway hung with red and gold lanterns, and painted
with a dragon.
You are aware of the shade as a dim presence beside you.
A chinaman stands in front of the doorway, barring entrance.
>x chinaman
The
man is Chinese. He's dressed in a sailor's fashion in cotton duck
trousers and a rough shirt. He is muscular, self-possessed. He's reading
a magazine.
>x magazine
A
copy of Doom, issue III. A popular magazine, which contains lurid
accounts of horrible murders and railway accidents, and even more lurid
ghost stories. The man appears to have been engrossed in an account of a
mining explosion. There is a picture (very fanciful, to your way of
thinking) of a canary being lowered in a cage to see if there is gas in
the mine.
>talk to ghost
The ghost of Christmas future does not seem to have any desire to speak.
>x houses
You can't see any such thing.
>x warehouses
A street in Limehouse
Dusk
is falling on the tightly-packed warehouses, taverns and doss-houses of
Limehouse. To the south you can hear the gentle slapping of the river,
the creaking of wet timber on piers and jetties. In this insalubrious
alley, windows are either boarded or broken, or caked with dirt. To the
west is an open doorway hung with red and gold lanterns, and painted
with a dragon.
You are aware of the shade as a dim presence beside you.
A chinaman stands in front of the doorway, barring entrance.
>talk to chinaman
"What is this place?" you ask.
The
attendant looks at you suspiciously, and puts his magazine aside.
"Who's asking? This is a private residence; the private residence of Mr
Chu. Mr Chu is having a party for a few friends." You do not believe
him.
>g
"I'm not a magistrate," you say.
The
man looks at you suspiciously: "Answer stands," he says. "This is Mr
Chu's place, and only for friends of Mr Chu. You best be about your
business before I have to make you go."
The
phantom turn towards you and gestures to your pocket, where (you now
remember) you still have the coin you found outside Bob Cratchit's
house.
>give coin to man
"Thank you, Sir," says the man. "You may go in."
Inside an opium den
A
cavernous room, full of nooks and crannies, lit only by a brazier and a
few oil lamps. All around the room people are lying. A thick, sickly
smoke hangs over them, rising from the long opium pipes that each is
smoking. A deep, stupefying torpor pervades everything. Time slowed to a
crawl, reality replaced with phantoms and visions: the addicts are
here, but not here; half alive in the half light.
You are aware of the shade as a dim presence beside you.
>talk to ghost
The ghost of Christmas future does not seem to have any desire to speak.
>smoke opium
That's not a verb I recognise.
>smoke
That's not a verb I recognise.
>eat opium
(taking Inside an opium den)
Inside an opium den isn't something you can carry around.
>x opium den
Inside an opium den
A
cavernous room, full of nooks and crannies, lit only by a brazier and a
few oil lamps. All around the room people are lying. A thick, sickly
smoke hangs over them, rising from the long opium pipes that each is
smoking. A deep, stupefying torpor pervades everything. Time slowed to a
crawl, reality replaced with phantoms and visions: the addicts are
here, but not here; half alive in the half light.
You are aware of the shade as a dim presence beside you.
>g
Inside an opium den
A
cavernous room, full of nooks and crannies, lit only by a brazier and a
few oil lamps. All around the room people are lying. A thick, sickly
smoke hangs over them, rising from the long opium pipes that each is
smoking. A deep, stupefying torpor pervades everything. Time slowed to a
crawl, reality replaced with phantoms and visions: the addicts are
here, but not here; half alive in the half light.
You are aware of the shade as a dim presence beside you.
>g
Inside an opium den
A
cavernous room, full of nooks and crannies, lit only by a brazier and a
few oil lamps. All around the room people are lying. A thick, sickly
smoke hangs over them, rising from the long opium pipes that each is
smoking. A deep, stupefying torpor pervades everything. Time slowed to a
crawl, reality replaced with phantoms and visions: the addicts are
here, but not here; half alive in the half light.
You are aware of the shade as a dim presence beside you.
The
spirit walks over to an emaciated cripple, lying on a mattress, and
gestures towards him. You have a sudden rush of recognition; this poor
child of the devil is one you know well -- Bob Cratchit's son, Tiny Tim.
>talk to tim
Tiny Tim stirs in his sleep, but does not reply. He is deeply asleep, in the arms of the drug.
>g
Tiny Tim stirs in his sleep, but does not reply. He is deeply asleep, in the arms of the drug.
The
phantom stands above Tim. It does not speak, and yet somehow its
meaning is clear: you must talk to this boy (boy no more!) and find out
what it is that has brought him here and, if it be possible, help him to
find some peace.
>wake boy
You can't see any such thing.
>wake tim
He wakes up, and looks at you as if he has seen a ghost. "Have you come," he says, "for revenge!"
Tim
looks at you in terror and shame. "How am I cursed for my terrible
deeds," he says. "You and my father! Both dead! And by my hand!"
>talk to tim
"But why did you do it?" you ask.
"You
have to believe me, whatever spirit or creature you are, I did not do
it out of malice, but out of ignorance. A man -- now, curse him, my
tormentor, beguiled me to do it. How I wish I had not; but I did it in
the hope only of helping my father."
>g
"I believe you, my lad, when you say that you did what you did in ignorance, and not out of evil."
"But
yet I did it," he says, "and it cannot be undone. So here I try to
forget a little, and wait for kind death to bring a forgetfulness that
will never pass."
The
spirit reaches a hand towards you -- not so much a hand, as a claw --
little more than bones in a dark glove. It wraps you in its cloak, which
smells like earth and mould. The earth begins to fill your mouth. You
choke; you wake. The spirit shrinks, and hardens, and you find yourself
staring at -- nothing more sinister than your own bedpost.
Bedroom (in the bed)
The
heavy green brocade curtains are open and you are relieved to see clear
winter sunshine filtering into the room, bearing some assurance that
the night's visions are over. Your table has a few papers on it and a
number of other objects besides, including -- quite remarkably -- a pair
of ladies' brown leather walking shoes. The door is open to the east.
>x shoes
Your mother's brown leather walking shoes.
>get shoes
You take your mother's shoes.
>i
You are carrying:
your mother's shoes
>x papers
The
papers are scattered on the table. You really should talk to Lucinda
about cleaning up -- since she has been walking out with the Jameson boy
she has become quite distracted. The only one of any moment is the
letter you received this morning from your attorneys.
>read letter
Even if you had the eyes of a younger man, you would not be able to read it from here.
>up
(getting out of bed)
You can't go that way. The door is east.
>read letter
Jarboe & Bungay
45 New Square
Lincoln's Inn
23rd December 1853
My Dear Mr Scrooge,
As
presently drawn, your will leaves your whole estate to your brothers,
and their issue. In practical terms, that means to your nephew and (if
he still lives) your brother Mordecai.
We
understand that you wish to amend the provisions of your will. Mr
Robert Cratchit is to become a partner in the firm of Scrooge &
Marley, and he is to inherit the partnership absolutely, the rest of
your estate passing to your nephew.
We
have accordingly prepared a revised will and partnership deed. If you
would be good enough to raise the matter with Mr Cratchit, we look
forward to seeing you on the twenty-seventh of this month, at our
offices, at eleven o'clock in the forenoon, where the documents can be
executed.
I beg to remain, Sir, your obedient and humble servant,
Wm Jarboe.
>take letter
You take the letter.
>l
Bedroom
The
heavy green brocade curtains are open and you are relieved to see clear
winter sunshine filtering into the room, bearing some assurance that
the night's visions are over. Your table has a few papers on it and a
number of other objects besides. Your bed stands placidly in its usual
place. Who would think what scenes it witnessed last night? The door is
open to the east.
>e
You
leave your room, and head down the staircase, out of the front door,
picking up a Christmas card that has been delivered while you were
asleep, and off towards Camden, where you are bidden to celebrate the
day with the Cratchits.
Smithfield
Smithfield
Market is uncharacteristically quiet this morning, though the debris
everywhere bears testament to the busy day that was had here yesterday,
as all the sides of beef and pork, all the hams, all the geese and
turkeys and ducks that London required to celebrate the day were carted
around by the porters. Now there are just families in their best
clothes, walking to church, or back from church, or off the the
bakehouse with their roasts ready for the oven. The City itself lies to
the south, but your way is to the north, up through Clerkenwell towards
King's cross.
Some way ahead of you is a man who seems vaguely familiar.
>x man
It's
hard to say from this distance, but he is definitely wearing an
astrakhan coat, with a low hat pulled down low over his head. He seems
to be heading north.
>call man
That's not a verb I recognise.
>n
King's Cross
You
cannot accustom yourself to Mr Brunel's vast railway terminus. It is a
hideously plain construction, as if some vast mill had crept here from
Manchester or Huddersfield or Bradford and sat itself down on the edge
of the City, like a charmless squatter.
You
are no fuddy-duddy; but it astonishes you to think that young people
take for granted the ability to make in just hours journeys that used to
take days. Your first trip to London, as a young apprentice, was partly
by horse, partly on foot. It took you four days; now you could complete
it in three hours. Today, however, for once, it is silent; just a few
people like you hurrying to luncheon appointments.
Your way lies to the west of the station.
The
man you saw in Smithfield is still ahead of you, and heading west
himself. He seems to be going faster than you. If only you had better
walking shoes!
>wear shoes
Although
it can hardly be said that they fit well, it gives you a remarkable
sense of confidence to walk in your mother's shoes. You feel
unaccountably stronger, faster, fleeter of foot.
>w
A street in Saint Pancras
The
journey to Cratchit's is a Grand Tour of Railway Station architecture,
and here we pass from Yorkshire Monolithic to the Classical. Euston Arch
stands ahead, guarding the Euston Railway Terminus. Sooty, dirty, under
this thin winter English sun it looks nothing at all like you imagine
the Parthenon to be (when -- and it is rarely indeed -- you give any
thought to such things); or rather it looks quite exactly and forlornly
like some exotic Greek goddess transported in her indecent shift to
spend the winter in the London sleet. Opposite it the goddess's older
sister, St Pancras New Church, shivers just as uncomfortably. Your way
lies north now, towards Camden and Bob Cratchit's house.
The
suspicious man in the astrakhan coat is still in sight. He does not, as
by now you half expected him to, head north, but disappears into an
alley to the northeast.
>ne
Alleyway, near St Pancras
Jerry-built
tenements close in all sides of this blind alley. Here, there is no
sign of Christmas cheer; just grimy windows, unwashed doorsteps, scraps
and trash thrown anywhere in the street. You can see nobody at all; the
place is quite deserted. It is just the sort of place where you might
expect to find your brother: and indeed, he is here. Facing you. A
mirror image, almost of yourself. Exactly like you in physical
appearance, but in every other way different to the man you are now.
"So,
dear brother Ebenezer," he says, "you have found me out! You have
hobbled after me, no doubt to wish me a 'Merry Christmas' and a most
prosperous New Year!"
>attack mordecai
You
move to attack him. "You never could do it, Ben," he says, "and you
never will be able to beat me. Time is precious, especially for you,
since you have so little left; don't waste it."
>talk to mordecai
"Merry
Christmas, Mordecai," you say through clenched lips. "I am glad that
you are alive; less glad to find you unrepentant, unreformed."
"Humbug!"
he cries. "There is nothing merry about this Christmas, or any
Christmas, for me. And, if I have my way, nothing merry about it for you
neither. And you are as glad to see me as you would be to see your
winding-sheet and the sexton."
>g
"Not
so, brother," you say, "for I will meet that good gentleman the sexton
and his honest shroud with a light heart. And so I would greet you too,
if I did not believe that you had a soul as black as these doors."
"And
what of it?" he says. "What. Of. It. Are you become a prattling
reverend in your dotage. I'm glad one of us has our wits about us
still."
>g
"I
mean to stop you," you say. "I could not stop you before, but I mean to
do it now. By force if necessary. You will not dishonour the memory of
our dear mother again."
"By
force?" he sneers. "There's no fool like an old fool, they say, but
surely no old fool can hold a candle up to you. You never could stop me,
Ebenezer, and you are not going to stop me now. I would break you in a
moment." He produces a swordstick.
>g
"Come now, Mordecai," you say. "There's no need for it to come to this, and on this day of all days."
"No!"
he says. "For once I agree with you. Rest assured, old man, that I can
and will break you like an insect under my heel at the time and place
that suits me. But it is not this time, or place." He glances around.
"These windows seem blind, but who knows what prying eyes and slippery
tongues may lie behind them. But do not think to escape me, Ebenezer. I
stand ready to strike; to strike once, and strike no more."
With that he pushes past you, roughly thrusting you aside, and runs out of the alley. You are alone.
>l
Alleyway, near St Pancras
Jerry-built
tenements close in all sides of this blind alley. Here, there is no
sign of Christmas cheer; just grimy windows, unwashed doorsteps, scraps
and trash thrown anywhere in the street. You can see nobody at all; the
place is quite deserted. The only way out is southwest.
>sw
A street in Saint Pancras
Euston
Arch stands ahead, guarding the Euston Railway Terminus. Sooty, dirty,
under this thin winter English sun it looks nothing at all like you
imagine the Parthenon to be (when -- and it is rarely indeed -- you give
any thought to such things); or rather it looks quite exactly and
forlornly like some exotic Greek goddess transported in her indecent
shift to spend the winter in the London sleet. Opposite it the goddess's
older sister, St Pancras New Church, shivers just as uncomfortably.
Your way lies north now, towards Camden and Bob Cratchit's house.
>n
A street in Camden
The
flagstones are covered in frost, and on the identical doorsteps of the
identical houses in this neatly nondescript street. You stand outside
number 17. Cast iron railings surround a basement area, painted black
like every other house; a neat front door and whitened step. It is the
house where your clerk, Bob Cratchit, lives with his family. The great
City lies to the south. The front door is east. Steps lead down to the
basement area.
Someone has dropped a sixpenny piece on the ground.
>get piece
You take the sixpence.
>enter
More polite, perhaps, to knock on the door?
>knock on the door
The
door opens, and Bob Cratchit opens it. "Merry Christmas, Mr Scrooge",
he says. "You must be half frozen. Come in and warm by the fire
downstairs." He leads you through a tidy hall, down some precipitous
steps and into the back parlour. "Come and join me in a glass of punch,
Sir," he says.
The Cratchits' back parlour
There
is, of course, a front parlour; but it is more or less kept for
weddings, christenings, funerals and the reception of grand, august,
unfamiliar and official visitors. But you are an old friend, for whom
the cosy back parlour will do much better.
A
bright, clear fire burns in the grate. Mrs Cratchit has followed the
latest fashion, and a fir tree decorated with ribbons, tinsel, sugared
almonds and paper snowflakes stands in one corner of the room.
Mrs Cratchit's canary is in a cage in one corner of the room.
Bob stands before the hearth.
>talk to bob
"Bob,"
you say, "I had a most striking experience last night. I heard Tim
talking to a man in my yard, and I believe he intends to put something
in our punch: something that might harm us both."
"Oh,
my dear Mr Scrooge," replies Bob, "I'm sure you must be mistaken, for
my Tim wouldn't hurt a fly. You must have been dreaming."
>g
"I
am really worried," you say. "I'm quite certain it was not merely a
dream. It was all quite real. I know he means no harm, but he is being
misled by others."
"Well,"
Bob says, "we can get to the bottom of this. Tim! Tim!" he shouts to
the neigbouring room, "Has anyone given you anything to put in the
punch?"
"Why, no father," the boy replies. "Nothing except sugar and spice and lemon which Ma Cratchit gave me this morning."
>g
You
begin to broach your night's discoveries with Bob again, but but he
looks at you as if you are mad, and you realise it is pointless.
"Well
now," says Bob, "let us have some punch to warm us while we wait for
the ladies to return with lunch. Tim! Tim! Will you fetch us two glasses
of claret cup from the bowl in the kitchen? And one for yourself if you
care to join us."
From the kitchen you hear Tim's reply, "Of course, father. I'll bring you some directly."
>g
You
begin to broach your night's discoveries with Bob again, but but he
looks at you as if you are mad, and you realise it is pointless.
"Mrs
Cratchit and the girls (or at least such of them as are not already
married and at home with their husbands) are across the road visiting a
friend. I'm sure they will be back soon, and dinner won't be long in the
making," Bob explains.
>g
You
begin to broach your night's discoveries with Bob again, but but he
looks at you as if you are mad, and you realise it is pointless.
Tim comes in, bearing two cups of claret cup in pewter tankards. He hands one to you, and one to his father.
>take all
"You
would prefer mine? Well, I hope they are the same," says Bob. "But by
all means, if you wish." He takes your punch, and gives you his. He
looks at you as if you might be slightly mad!
>l
The Cratchits' back parlour
A
bright, clear fire burns in the grate. Mrs Cratchit has followed the
latest fashion, and a fir tree decorated with ribbons, tinsel, sugared
almonds and paper snowflakes stands in one corner of the room.
Mrs Cratchit's canary is in a cage in one corner of the room.
Bob stands before the hearth.
You can also see Tiny Tim here.
Bob raises his mug. "A Merry Christmas, Mr Scrooge. And many more like them. Your very good health, Sir!"
>take bob's mug
"You
would prefer mine? Well, I hope they are the same," says Bob. "But by
all means, if you wish." He takes your punch, and gives you his. He
looks at you as if you might be slightly mad!
Bob is standing with his mug poised, waiting for you to join him in his toast.
>talk to tim
You've done your best. It would be pointless to press him further.
You watch in consternation as Bob raises his mug to his lips and drinks.
The
effect -- as you feared -- is almost instant. He holds his hands to his
neck, as if it were being eaten from within. He collapse on the floor,
writhes briefly in agony, and expires.
You see Tim's face whiten. He runs headlong past you, up the stairs, and towards a future that you have already glimpsed.
*** You failed to save Bob or Tiny Tim ***
Would you like to RESTART, RESTORE a saved game, UNDO your last move or QUIT?
> undo
The Cratchits' back parlour
[Previous turn undone.]
>slap mug
That's not a verb I recognise.
>pour mug
(your punch)
You drop the mug on the floor, spilling the punch.
Bob looks concerned. You can see he's going to have some explaining to do when Mrs Cratchit returns.
"Now,
don't you worry about that Mr Scrooge," says Bob. "Tim can fetch you
another one in a jiffy. Tim, my lad, be so good as to fetch Mr Scrooge a
fresh mug of punch."
>talk to timù
You can't see any such thing.
>talk to tim
He's in the kitchen.
>w
You can't go that way.
Tim returns with a fresh mug of punch, and gives it to you.
>pour mug
(your punch)
The mug clatters to the ground, splashing punch everywhere.
"Oh
my dear, Mr Scrooge, are you sure you are quite well? Tim, fetch
another mug of punch for Mr Scrooge, please." Bob cannot hide his
annoyance.
>n
You can't go that way.
Tim returns with yet another mug of punch.
"Third time's a charm, eh," says Bob.
>pour mug
(your punch)
You really cannot spill yet another mug of punch.
You watch in consternation as Bob raises his mug to his lips and drinks.
The
effect -- as you feared -- is almost instant. He holds his hands to his
neck, as if it were being eaten from within. He collapses on the floor,
writhes briefly in agony, and expires.
You see Tim's face whiten. He runs headling past you, and towards a future that you have already glimpsed.
*** You failed to save Bob or Tiny Tim ***
Would you like to RESTART, RESTORE a saved game, UNDO your last move or QUIT?
> undo
The Cratchits' back parlour
[Previous turn undone.]
>give punch to canary
(your punch to the canary)
You
put a drop of punch on you finger and hold it through the bars. The
little bird flutters down, and takes a drop. The effect is almost
instantaneous. The bird shrieks, and falls over, stone dead.
Bob
looks concerned. "Oh my goodness me," he says, "what on earth is Mrs
Cratchit going to say. I simply cannot understand it, the poor little
thing is generally fond of a drop or two. What can have done it."
Tim
is even more anxious. "Oh Sir!" he says. "Do not drink a drop of that
punch. I did not mean any harm, I swear; I only did what I thought best.
I meant to hurt nobody."
The
whole story comes out then. How Tim met a stranger, who told him that
by putting a drop of a strange, green liquid in the punch he would
prevent disaster befalling his family; how he did as he was told,
expecting nothing but good to come of it.
And
so the story ends. Bob becomes a partner in the firm; Tim is saved from
a life of addiction and misery. And Mordecai? Well, who knows. You like
to think that he saw his plan fail. You would like to think that he
repented and reformed; but whatever his fate, at least ...
*** You saved yourself, Bob and Tiny Tim ***
*
What did I think of this game ?
1) The game has an excellent "flow": you always know what to do, at least in the first part, which is in my opinion almost a "participative fiction" or "engaging reading"; you know which actions will make the story progress, they are limited, simple, obvious, simply allowing the player to follow the story with the pleasant impression of collaborating in its unfolding. It is like turning pages, but more active; one acts in an intra-diabetic way instead of simply acting on the very object that is the support of the work.
Things change a little afterwards. Puzzles appear, strangely simple, but there they are. There is a room with a coin on the floor. I picked it up, suspecting that it would have a role later in the story, but I don't really know why - and indeed you'd have to give it to an NPC to get in somewhere. Since you can't go back in the game, I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't picked it up; would the game have stopped, showing me a message of defeat? I don't want to check. Anyway, this coin is meant to be given to an NPC, and this action is suggested by another NPC (a ghost, in this case). Quite honestly, I never would have thought of giving this play to the character if the other one hadn't told me to do it... This is the first "puzzle" of the game, and although it's the simplest puzzle ever designed (there's no other possibility than to give this piece to the man) it's quite surprising because until now the story was going pretty much on track. The fact that the author felt the need to suggest what to do to the player suggests that he was conscious of creating a break, however small.
There's a strange scene, too, that completely breaks this "flow" (at least, that can break it): you have to follow a character from street to street, without losing sight of him. I read the transcript of the game by Club Floyd and apparently there are other rooms to visit if you decide to make a detour, to abandon the pursuit of the suspicious man for a bit of sightseeing. I hadn't even thought about it, and to tell the truth, this possibility of somehow pausing the progress of the events to visit some rooms for free is a little bit of a pity. Why allow the player to visit rooms when he's supposed to be following an NPC, and the game has been encouraging him since its inception to play the game, to play his role, by following events as they happen?
2) Speaking of the rooms: the descriptions (of the rooms) are on the whole not very "descriptive" precisely, but rather narrative, in fact (they contain considerations on the character, life, history, relationships of the character-player). From the outset, we have a non-utilitarian conception of intradiegetic space. There is no need to rummage through every piece of furniture, to lift things, to exploit the space and its contents, to move forward in history. It is the story that is in the foreground, not the environment; the unfolding of events, not the proactivity of the character-player.
In the same vein, and with the exception of the chase scene mentioned above, there is no wandering possible in the game space; no free rooms, which are there only for the atmosphere or to flesh out the content.
3) I was talking about the few puzzles above. Concerning the objects, so: overall, the background elements are useless, and I found myself trying perfectly free actions on them; there is, in one room, a carpet. I tried to lift it up, to look underneath. Without any result. I then wondered why I wanted to lift it or take it, when it was clear that there would be nothing underneath and that it wouldn't be of much use in the story. Idiot reflex in answer: yes, but then why does the game mention it, this damn rug? I must have been perverted by the I.F where the game expects you to spend your time trying every possible action on every object, without any intradiabetic justification. Here this is not the case; once again, the game only offers us to live the adventure from beginning to end, with no great suspense about what we have to do to move forward in the story - but the simple fact of typing commands is satisfying.
The objects are therefore relatively useless but are there anyway. For example, the key to the house: you have it with you from the start of the game, and there is no reason to lose it or get it caught; no reason either to not be able to open the door (unless you let go of the key before trying to get in; but why would you do such a thing?). The author could just as easily have linked the "Courtyard" room and the interior of the house, without a door in between. I interpret the fact that he chose to implement a door and a key as a will to stick to the standards of the genre with objects and organization of space that are not necessary, but correspond to a tradition.
This is, moreover, the general feeling that emerges from the game: the impression of being a player in a kind of unpretentious homage to good old interactive fiction, with its codes and practices, at the same time as to a classic of English literature. If Christmas isn't conducive to that kind of familiar and reassuring stuff, I don't know what is...
