The next thing he knew, he awoke in his bed. De Rainault looked around him for the Ghost, but didn't see him.
He heard the watchman call twelve yet again. As the echo of the voice faded, he remembered the prediction of old le Fevere, and lifting up his eyes, beheld a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming, like a mist along the ground, towards him.
"Are you the ghost of Christmas Future?" He asked in an unstable voice.
The spirit spoke no word, but his hooded head turned in the direction of the Sheriff. No face he could see, for the hood was pulled low over his eyes. (But how many silent men are there in the shire of Nottingham? Luckily, de Rainault did *not* ask himself the same question! As for us, we know who we’re dealing with here, right?)
"I think you want me to hold on to your robe?" he questioned. And since no answer came he just stepped forward and took a slip of the ghost’s robe. "You are going to show me the shadows of what has yet to come. Is that so, spirit?" No answer, though the ghost started to walk the same route all the other spirits had taken. Once they had floated down the castle walls everything turned dark again.
When the Sheriff awakened he found himself in the hay in a stable of a small village. The dark figure of the Ghost stood before him. De Rainault hurried to get up and obediently followed the spirit. It was still dark outside, though the sky showed signs of a new day.
"Is it true?" an old man softly asked his daughter.
"I don’t know for sure. But they all say the same thing: that he’s dead."
Another man joined them. "When did he die?"
The woman shook her head. "Last night they say. But no one knows for sure..." She bent a little more forward to the others: "...If you ask me, he’s been dead for years already!" Cold laughter followed.
"Come!" the soft voice of the spirit came as he entered one of the cottages.
"Who’ll inherit the land?" an old, grey-haired man, whom de Rainault recognised as Edward of Wickham, asked.
"His nephew I suppose. His brother has been dead for three years now. Young Martin is the only family left," a young man answered. "He will take good care of his people, father. He’s a kind and gentle person. So unlike his uncle."
"When will they bury him?" a young woman asked.
"Upcoming Sunday. In St. Mary’s Abbey," another person answered. "It will be a cheap funeral, I suppose. I don’t know of anyone to attend it."
The ghost guided him towards the working place of a local craftsman.
"Spirit, tell me, who is it they’re talking about?" De Rainault asked, anxious. From the hut they approached the sound of whistling came. A man was carving something into a stone.
De Rainault looked at the man in surprise. "Why, that’s a gravestone. How can he make one and be so merry? Tell me, who has died? Tell me!"
The ghost pointed at the stone and the Sheriff read: "Lord High Sheriff de Rainaul..." Further the craftsman had not come.
"But that’s me!" He exclaimed. "No, spirit! Oh no!" The Sheriff started to sob (if you can believe it), clinging tightly to the spirit’s robe.
"I will not be the man I was. I will always celebrate Christmas! I will even celebrate Yule! Oh spirit, please tell me I can sponge away the writing on this stone!"
Smoke started to crinkle up from the fire and things started to get hazy before the Sheriff’s eyes. The spirit became more vague until everything went black.
