by Starr Meade
Mr. Smith had moved quickly and was already far ahead, near one of the groups loitering on the sidewalk. He seemed to pause near the group; maybe he even spoke to its members. Then he turned a corner and disappeared from sight.
The group, comprising half a dozen boys near their own age, watched Dylan and Clare approach. The boys in the group said nothing, only smiled those little smiles that made Clare nervous. They had passed the group and Clare was slowly exhaling a sigh of relief when she heard Dylan cry, “Hey!” Turning to him, she saw that he held his hand to the back of his head, and a small dirt clod, exploded now into fragments, lay at his feet. Clare followed the direction of Dylan’s eyes as he stared back at the group of boys, who laughed quietly together and watched him.
Before she could say anything to stop him, Dylan had called out, “Who threw that?”
One boy slouched forward. “Threw what?” he asked, holding out a dirt clod in one hand. “One of these? Oh. Guess it must have been me.”
“Well, knock it off and leave me alone!” Dylan ordered. He paused, then turned to go on.
“Sure, I’ll let you alone,” the boy replied. “As soon I do this.” Dylan and Clare heard the dirt clod whistle through the air, and Dylan felt as well as heard the thud when it hit his shoulder.
Every thing in Dylan’s mind evaporated except rage. He turned back and charged the boy, grabbing him by the jacket and shoving him to the ground. The boy bounced back to his feet instantly. The other boys closed in around them in a circle, blocking Clare’s vision so she could hardly see Dylan at all. In her anxiety for her cousin, Clare hopped back and forth from one foot to the other without noticing it. She looked up and could have cried for joy when she saw a police car coming around the corner. It pulled up with a squeal next to the boys, and a policeman jumped out, brandishing a stick. “All right, all right, break it up,” he called out in a bored voice, hitting boys with his stick.
The boys scattered, trying to get out of reach of the flailing stick. One blow struck Dylan on the back and he cried out, “Ow,” then said, “But, Officer, it wasn’t my fault. They were throwing things at us.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the policeman said, already getting back in his car, “but you stopped to make something of it, right? You should just be glad I came along when I did; those guys would have had you for lunch,” and he closed his car door and drove away.
“Come on, Dylan, hurry,” Clare said, not wanting to be anywhere in sight when the gang of boys reconvened. Dylan saw the wisdom of this and hurried away with her, around the corner where the wide path led. Then Clare squealed with delight and relief. “Look, Dylan,” she cried, “it’s right there! The park the tree told us about!” Just ahead a small grassy park invited them to come in and stroll under its graceful trees and relax on its wrought iron benches. A tall white fence, also of wrought iron, encircled the park. The gate was closed. A banner hung on the fence, with the words, “First-time visitors enter here.” In smaller letters were the words, “Visitor’s pass required.”
Dylan approached the gate, Clare right behind him. On the gate was another small screen, like the one they had encountered at the previous gate. Above this screen, a small sign read, “Absolutely no admittance without visitor’s pass.” On the screen itself, in letters glowing a bright green, Dylan saw the same list that he had in his shirt pocket.
Authorized Personnel will:
look out for the interests of others, not just for their own personal interests;
pay back good for evil;
do, speak, and think only what is kind;
keep tempers, emotions, and mouths under control at all times;
demonstrate forgiveness to the same person up to 490 times;
show all due respect to the Founder of Holiday;
rejoice in the very fullest way possible.
The words under the screen read, “Type in your first and last names.”
Dylan turned back to Clare. Without looking at her, he said, “I don’t think they’ll let me in. I don’t meet those requirements.”
“Well, try it and see,” Clare urged.
Dylan typed in his name. The words on the screen changed to, “Welcome, Dylan. Insert your visitor’s pass.”
Dylan reached for the wallet in his back pocket, where he had placed his visitor’s pass. His wallet was not there. He tried the other pocket. It was empty too. “My wallet’s gone!” he said.
“Did you leave it in the forest?” Clare asked.
Dylan shook his head. “No, we used visitor’s passes at the last gate, remember? I had it then, and I put it back in my pocket.” Suddenly Dylan understood. “Those guys back there, with the dirt clods. They were just trying to distract me so they could get my wallet.”
Clare remembered how the gang of boys had closed in a tight circle around Dylan before the policeman came. “That must be it,” she said. “Did you have much money in there?”
Dylan shook his head. “But what about Holiday? I can’t even get into the park without my visitor’s pass. Look at yours. What does it say on it about what happens if you don’t have one?”
Clare pulled out her visitor’s pass and read, “Failure to present this pass when asked to do so will result in a costly fine, immediate expulsion from Holiday, and the forfeiture of all right to ever return.” Dylan looked at her with a sickly expression. “Look at the screen,” Clare said, pointing at it.
“It’s saying something else.”
Dylan looked and read the words, “If you have no visitor’s pass, press ‘No.’”
Dylan pressed the No button. The screen changed again. Now it said, “Enormous fine due now.” Those words, however, remained on the screen for only a few seconds. Then they gave way to these: “Paid in full. New pass issued.” The machine began to click, and slowly a new pass slid out. Dylan took it and saw that it had his name on it. Although in every other way it was just the same as his old one, where the old one had said, “Visitor’s Pass,” this new one read, “Dylan’s Pass.”
Puzzled but elated, Dylan took the pass and inserted it into the proper slot. Clare began to do the same, but stopped, staring at the pass in her hand. “Dylan, look!” she gasped. Dylan looked at her pass and saw that it had changed. It no longer read “Visitor’s Pass.” Instead, he saw the bold letters of “Clare’s Pass.” Wondering, Clare inserted her pass. The gate swung open and the two entered the park.
mistletoe and Nightmares
The gate swung shut behind Dylan and Clare. They heard quiet clicking sounds as it locked automatically. They had no feelings of fear about being locked in, only a sense of safety in knowing that everyone else was locked out. “And none too soon, either,” Clare said as the last ray of the sun set behind a building.
“I wouldn’t want to spend the night out there.”
Dylan was distracted with the mystery of how he had entered. “But who paid my fine?” he asked. “And how did we get new passes?”
“Why, it was the Founder of course.” The voice was quiet but crystal clear, and it sounded deeply soothing.
Dylan and Clare looked all around, but the park was small and it was easy to see that they were the only people there. “It must be one of the trees,” Dylan muttered under his breath to Clare. He began examining the closest one.
The voice laughed gently, a tinkling little laugh. “No, dear, not the tree,” it said. “I’m growing on the tree.”
The children looked and saw a mass of dark, leathery leaves hanging from one of the tree’s branches, leaves that were clearly not the same as those of the tree itself. Dylan was thinking, I’ve seen that kind of leaf before; where was it? when Clare cried, “Mistletoe! You’re a mistletoe plant!”
“That’s right, dear,” said the voice. “I’m Missy Mistletoe and I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“I’m Clare,” Clare said, “and this is my cousin, Dylan.”
Having already had conversations with trees, the cousins did not waste much time in amazement that a
mistletoe plant could speak. “Are you sure it was the Founder who paid my fine and got me the new pass?” Dylan asked.
“Of course it was,” Missy answered so firmly that it was impossible not to believe her. “Who else is that generous and who else could possibly have paid such a huge fine?”
“Would it have been really big?” Dylan asked meekly.
“Oh my, yes, way out of your reach,” Missy answered, “or anybody else’s for that matter.”
“So he wasn’t mad that I lost my visitor’s pass?” Dylan pressed.
“He very well might have been, but that wouldn’t have stopped him,” Missy said.
“I didn’t mean to lose it,” Dylan tried to explain.
Missy cut him short. “No one keeps his pass in that neighborhood. That’s the main reason that the road goes through there.”
“Clare didn’t lose hers,” Dylan protested.
“Clare’s different,” Missy answered. “She only had to come that way because she’s traveling with you.” Dylan started to ask why that would be so, but then it occurred to him that Clare’s experience in the cave had been different from his as well, and he said nothing.
While Dylan puzzled over this, Clare had been thinking about something else. Now she said, “People decorate with mistletoe. They hang it in doorways and people kiss under it. Why is that?”
Missy gave her quiet tinkling laugh again. “It is a bit overdone sometimes, isn’t it?” she said. “I’ll have to tell you a bit of a story to answer that question. Why don’t you have a seat on that bench?” The children sat and Missy began. “You know enough history to understand why Holiday exists, don’t you?”
Dylan and Clare nodded. “A king got rid of the mean rulers it had, and the people who lived there turned the town into a kind of a monument to the king by making it as beautiful and happy a place as they could,” Dylan said.
“Yes,” said Missy. “But it was the townspeople’s own fault that they needed to be liberated in the first place. The town had been ruled by a wise and generous Emperor, who lived in a faraway land and who supplied the town with everything it needed. The tyrants had come, pretending to have the best interests of the town at heart. They tricked the foolish citizens into rebelling against their rightful ruler, promising to take care of them and provide them with much better goods than the Emperor had ever given. When the good King came along, he showed the townspeople their mistake. They saw then that all the tyrants had given them was really bad for them. They realized they needed their Emperor. But the law was the law, and the law said that subjects who rebelled against the Emperor were cut off from him forever—unless they could pay a fine, a fine so huge there was no way in the world that the little town, devastated by years of oppression by bad rulers, could ever pay it. So the King, when he came, not only overthrew the tyrants and set the citizens free, he also paid the debt they owed the Emperor from his own purse.”
“Was he that rich?” Dylan asked.
“Oh my, yes, you have no idea,” Missy said.
“How much did he have to pay?” Dylan wanted to know.
“It cost him everything he had,” Missy replied. “The Founder gave up everything to pay that debt. He became poorer than anyone else has ever been.”
Baffled by such generosity, Dylan asked, “Why would he do that?”
“That’s just how the Founder is,” Missy said. “Why would he pay your fine?” Dylan had no answer for that, so Missy continued. “Long ago, in ancient times, when nations or towns who had been at war with each other patched up their quarrels and made peace, they often held the ceremony under a hanging piece of mistletoe. It was actually called the Plant of Peace. So people hang it everywhere in Holiday—downtown, in the Visitor’s Center, in their homes. It reminds them that the citizens of the town have been reconciled to their Emperor. It’s a tribute to the King who paid their debt and worked out the peace treaty.” Then she added, “Of course, now everyone wants to kiss under the mistletoe.”
Dylan agreed. “It actually gets a little sickening,” he said.
Missy only laughed her little laugh again. Then she asked, “Are you hungry?” Dylan and Clare both suddenly realized that they were. “If you’ll go to the back corner of the park, you’ll find a box that has assorted cans and boxes of things that don’t need to be cooked. Nothing fancy, but good healthy things that will keep you going. The Founder puts them there for people like you are who are passing through. You can save the food you brought in case you need it later. When you’re finished eating, you’ll find a stack of clean blankets in the same corner. The ground is soft here and the night is warm. A blanket under you and one on top and I think you’ll be quite comfortable for the night.”
Gratefully, Dylan and Clare made a simple but satisfying supper. They spread out the blankets and slipped off to sleep before they had even finished saying their goodnights to each other.
In the night, Dylan had a dream. He was looking down from somewhere up high. Below him were the streets of his own neighborhood. People crowded the streets, some wandering slowly, others clipping along at almost a run. Dylan recognized everyone he saw. His teacher was there, his classmates, aunts, uncles, cousins, his doctor, his dentist, people from stores where his family shopped—all people Dylan knew. He could see both of his parents as well. Dylan thought it curious that, even with so many people on the street and all of them known to each other, no one walked with anyone else. Each person walked alone. As he watched, Dylan noticed another strange fact. In spite of the ceaseless activity, no one ever actually got anywhere. People would walk in one direction for a while, then, either turning sharply on their heel or moving around in a great arc, they all ended up going back the way they had come. Later, they would turn again and go the other way once more.
A voice interrupted Dylan’s observations, a voice Dylan had come to thoroughly dislike. It belonged to Mr. Smith, the man who kept trying to discourage him and Clare from looking for a real Holiday. “So tell me, Dylan, why do you hate your parents?” the voice asked.
“That’s crazy! I don’t hate my parents!” Dylan protested.
“Oh, you don’t,” the voice answered (but Dylan could not see the speaker anywhere). “But you certainly don’t think much about what they want, do you? You have this obsession with finding a real Holiday and getting authorized so you can stay there—what does that say to them about how much you appreciate all they’ve done for you? Their house where they live isn’t good enough for you. You don’t appreciate that they’ve taken you on vacations to Holiday every year; oh, no, you want to find the real Holiday, and then you want to stay there forever, even though you know your father needs to stay where he is for his job.”
Dylan started to protest, but the voice, going on, cut him short. “Of course, I can see why you might not care much about them. I mean, how much have they cared about you? They know how much you want to live in Holiday; why don’t they move there? Could it be that a job and the things they own matter more to them than you do? If there is a real Holiday, and since it’s so important to you, why don’t they help you get there?” Dylan remembered his parents’ encouragement to take as long as he needed to look for the Founder and to try to get authorized. He remembered his father telling him it was the most important trip he would ever make. But the voice went on relentlessly, as if the speaker could read Dylan’s mind. “If they think it’s so important, why haven’t they worked a little harder at trying to get you there?” Then the voice concluded, and the fact that it spoke so pleasantly made the words all the more awful to hear. “No, Dylan, your parents are like you, and you’re like everyone else. You’re all so wrapped up in your own concerns and interests that you don’t have time or energy left to care about what other people might want or need. It’s all about ‘me first,’ for all of you. Want proof ? Go see.”
Abruptly (as often happens in a dream), Dylan’s position changed. No longer did he look down on the scene from above; he himself walked with all the othe
r people on the street. Like everyone else, he walked all alone. Now Dylan noticed what he had not seen before. The people were not only walking; they gestured with their arms at one another and their mouths moved so that it looked like they shouted to one another; yet an eerie silence hung over the street.
Dylan wanted to be with someone he knew, so he looked around for his father. When he caught his eye, he waved and shouted. “Dad! Where are you going?” Dylan distinctly heard his own voice, too loud in the great stillness. His father, however, cupped his hand to his ear to indicate that he had not heard what Dylan had called. Dylan shouted the same thing again, louder, but still his father could not hear him. His father’s mouth moved, as though he too shouted at Dylan, but Dylan could hear nothing but his own voice. “Well, I don’t care where you’re going,” Dylan muttered, “I don’t have anywhere I have to go; I’ll walk with you.” So Dylan tried to move toward his father, only to discover, frighteningly, that his legs would not do what he wanted them to do. Try as he would to change directions, Dylan could not get his legs to do anything other than move straight ahead. He could not turn.
Dylan felt a rising panic. He had never thought much about his legs; they had always done what he wanted them to do without any special attention. It scared him now to have them move as though they had their own lives, outside of his control. Where would they take him? Then he saw his mother, walking quickly. She saw him at the same time, and stretched out her arms to him. At first he thought she would come to him, but then he saw that her course would take her right past him, just out of his reach. Once again, he tried to alter his direction—it would only take the slightest movement!—but still his legs would not obey. Now Dylan understood why all the people walked alone. Each one walked at a slightly different angle, so that no two would ever meet and none had the power to change direction. Nor could anyone hear anything except his or her own voice.
