Keeping Holiday (20 page)

The poinsettia giggled, sounding like a sweet little old lady. “Of course, you
didn’t
‘run into me,’” she corrected. “The Founder put me here to wait for you.” And the whole plant moved gently from side to side—(
which must be
, thought Dylan,
the way a plant shakes its head when it has no head to shake
). “Are you
ever
going to get this, young man?” she added so quietly that Dylan was not even sure she had said it.

Since Dylan and Clare had searched every store in Holiday Village, their conversation with Penny had taken place at the very end of the little village that lay just outside of the real city of Holiday. Now they had only to cross the short stretch of open road between Holiday Village and the real town to finally be in the beautiful city they had looked down on from the roadside overlook. They hurried along this stretch of road, eager to finally reach their destination. They kept up such a brisk pace that, when they spoke, their sentences came out in jerky little bursts.

“You know,” Dylan said, “annoying as it was—back at the beginning—to have to go—the long way to—Holiday,—I’m glad it worked out—that way. I’m sure—we’ll appreciate—Holiday—much more now—that we’ve gone through so much—to get to it.”

“And,” Clare added, also panting because of their speed, “look how much we’ve learned—about the Founder. We wouldn’t have known—any of that—if we’d come the easy way.”

“Yes,” Dylan agreed in a soft, serious voice, more to himself than to Clare, “and the Founder really seems to be the main point. I’ll bet you can’t know the real Holiday if you don’t understand about the Founder.”

A few more moments of quick walking and Dylan and Clare passed the sign that read “Holiday City Limits.” Several more steps and they stepped through the city gate that stood open, inviting. There they stopped, overwhelmed with the wonder of what lay before them. Buildings of all kinds greeted their eyes. Grand elegant halls, simple cozy cottages, tall imposing towers, exquisitely styled mansions, inviting little shops and cafes—all were different, but every one was beautiful. Each building had its own yard, landscaped to be an extension of the building. The great, imposing structures sat in expansive green lawns, bordered by well-trimmed hedges. Each smaller house or shop, even the most simple, had its own garden, however tiny, full of flowers of all kinds. The streets, obviously cared for with loving attention, were lined with every sort of tree. Pine and fir trees, flowering fruit trees, full shade trees, all grew along the streets.

Each tree with blossoms, each evergreen tree, each flower growing in a yard, gave off its own strong, pure, glad fragrance. Rather than overwhelming Dylan and Clare with one great jumbled smell, each fragrance seemed to stand out on its own so that first the cousins smelled pine, then rose, then orange blossom, then lavender. Nor were plants the only sources of scent. Every
delicious food that ever produced a smell to make one’s mouth water wafted on the Holiday air: melting chocolate, baking bread, spicy cider, toasted nuts, and roasting meats of all kinds. Over it all came the scent of the outdoors on a clear, crisp morning with, just lightly, a trace of the smell of smoke rising from a fireplace.

“Mmm,” Clare breathed. “I think I could eat some lunch right about now.”

“Sh,” Dylan said, “listen.” Listen they did, and each sound, like each fragrance, stood out sharply on its own, first one and then another, never degenerating into one big background noise. First voices singing in exquisite harmony, then precisely tuned strings; next, the deep solemn tone of large bells and the cheery tinkling of little chimes; then the clear call of a horn followed by delighted laughter—from everywhere and from nowhere in particular the sounds poured forth.

Clare shook her head, amazed. Then she asked her cousin, “What do you want to do first, Dylan?”

The question broke in on Dylan’s concentrated wonder. Immediately, he began to search for signs giving directions. “Go to the chapel, of course,” he answered. “I want to see if the Founder will come. The penguin said that’s the place where people most often meet up with him. Of course, I still don’t have a gift. . . .” The last words were under Dylan’s breath and trailed off, the sentence left unfinished, as Dylan saw a signpost. One arm of the sign pointed to Holiday Chapel, and Dylan hurried off in that direction. Clare, still hungry, but thinking to herself that, after all, this was really Dylan’s trip, followed.

For the first time on this whole trip, the children found a place easily. The chapel building itself proved to be one of the plainest in the city. It resembled, almost identically, the church in the Visitors’ Center part of Holiday. The chapel sat empty for the moment, since no services were being held. Nonetheless, as soon as Dylan stepped into the building, he felt a deep sense of expectation. It seemed like a time to be his most serious, yet, at the same time, joy fuller than any he had ever felt before bubbled up inside him. “Clare,” he whispered, wondering why he was whispering and yet realizing, as soon as he had wondered it, that whispering was just
right
somehow. “I’m
sure
the Founder will come. I’m sure we’ll find him. I just know it.”

Dylan sat down on a bench in the back of the room. Clare marveled at this new side of Dylan. He wasn’t the type to sit and wait. He liked to be out
doing
, making things happen. Yet Clare could see that Dylan was prepared to sit right there and wait his entire final day of admission to Holiday, if necessary, to see the Founder. She had the good sense to realize that, though this was not like Dylan and though she herself was hungry, this was the right thing. This was what Dylan needed to do. So Clare sat down to wait beside him.

Found!

D
ylan had been sitting in the stillness long enough to have lost all sense of time, when, suddenly, he heard footsteps outside and the clicking sounds of the doorknob turning. His breath caught in his throat and a rush of emotion swept up inside. Joy, hope, shyness, fear, gladness, anxiety—all surged through him at once in a powerful wave that left him feeling light-headed. He grabbed at Clare’s arm. “Here he comes,” he whispered, and, together, they turned to watch the Founder walk in the door.

Slowly, the doorknob turned. Slowly, someone pushed open the door. Slowly, a man’s head peeked around the door, followed by his body. The man was more than a little rumpled. He appeared to have forgotten to comb his hair that morning. One long sleeve of his shirt was rolled up a turn or two while the other sleeve was pushed clear up to his elbow. A pencil had been thrust behind each ear. He held a roll of paper that slipped a little in his hand as he stepped through the door, causing it to unroll almost all the way to the floor. He began to roll it back up while at the same time peering around the room over the tops of half-glasses. His face lit up when his eyes fell on Dylan and Clare.

Dylan felt confused. “Are—are you—you’re not the Founder, are you?” he asked.

The man threw back his head and laughed. “Oh dear me, no,” he replied. “Do I
look
like the Founder?”

“Well,” Dylan replied, “you don’t look like how I expect the Founder to look, but then, I don’t really know
what
he looks like. I’ve never seen him.”

The man became more serious. “Yes, well, neither have I,” he said.

“But do you know the Founder?” Dylan asked, hopefully. “Did he send you?”

“Send me?” The man considered.

“Well, yes, in a way I guess you could say that.”

“But he didn’t send you specifically to look for
us
, Dylan and Clare?” Dylan said, growing less hopeful by the minute that this man was here to help them meet the Founder.

“Dylan and Clare,” the man muttered thoughtfully. Then, again, “Dylan and Clare. I don’t
remember
those names—but then, I have so much to remember.

It’s a wonder I don’t forget everything!” He unrolled the large roll of paper again, a little at a time, skimming over it with his eyes. “Nothing on here about anyonenamed Dylan and Clare. No, I don’t think I’ve been told anything about you,” he concluded. “But,” less thoughtfully and much more brightly, “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Name’s Mert,” and he stepped forward, thrusting out his hand to shake Dylan’s and Clare’s. They rose and shook his hand.

“I came in hoping to find some volunteers,” Mert explained, “but I see there’s no one here—except you, of course,” he added, hastily. “I don’t suppose you’d want to volunteer?” he asked with the only half-hopeful air of one who has often been turned down.

“To do what?” Clare asked. She knew they would have to tell him “no,” but the disheveled little man seemed nice, and she hated to just say it outright.

“Make my deliveries,” he answered, “do my chores. There’s so much
stuff
—people are always very generous with their
stuff
. Problem is, when it’s time to take it where it’s needed and actually use it to help people, everyone’s always too busy. Oh, I know how it is,” he hastened to add, in the manner of one unwilling to complain, “schedules are so hectic these days. And they all really
are
generous. But it’s just too much for one man to do. How will I ever do it all?” Reminded of his dilemma, Mert ran his fingers through his hair in a despairing gesture that left his hair even messier than before.

“What kind of stuff do you deliver?” Clare asked politely, still stalling to avoid having to say no.

“Why, step out here and see,” Mert invited, opening wide the door and stepping back to make room for Dylan and Clare to pass. Dylan and Clare moved to the door and looked out. A small flatbed truck with a bright green cab sat, idling, at the curb. Wooden rails had been built around the truck bed so things could be carried without falling out. All sorts of things filled this truck bed: boxes, bags of groceries, pieces of furniture, several bicycles of different sizes, a lawn mower and yard tools, a vacuum cleaner, even a refrigerator.

“A lot of these things have been donated as gifts for people who, at least for the moment, are unable to provide them for themselves,” Mert explained. “Those things I need to deliver. Some of the things—the lawn mower, for instance, are mine for helping with. Some folks don’t need food or things, but their health is too poor to take care of chores around the house. So those people I need to do a little work for.” Mert shook his head, and, again, ran his fingers through his hair. “But I don’t know how I’ll get it all done by the end of the day.” He looked
pleadingly at Dylan and Clare. “You don’t want to help me out, do you?” he asked, with obvious apprehension that they would tell him no.