by Starr Meade
Miserable as all this felt, Dylan had no time to notice it. Instead, he concentrated intently, trying to stay on the path, which was rapidly disappearing under the deepening snow. Faintly, Clare’s voice came from behind. Although she walked right behind him, trying to step where he had already stepped to keep her feet out of the snow, when she called out to him, the wind blew her voice right back into her mouth. “Dylan,” she called, “maybe we could go back to the candlemaker and borrow some warm clothes.”
Dylan stopped and turned to face her, or she never would have heard him over the wind. “We can’t,” he answered. “I’ve lost the road. It’s completely buried.”
“What are we going to do?” Clare cried, and her voice carried a touch of desperation. “I’m freezing!”
“I don’t know,” Dylan answered, “but I think we’d better keep moving.” He turned back around and walked on into the wind, trying to move in the general direction of where the path had been. The wind, blowing hard all this time already, whipped itself into a yet more bitter rage. It howled in its fury. The snow, not to be outdone, fell thicker, faster, coming down in almost solid sheets. The children could hardly see a few steps in front of them. Snowflakes, hurled by the angry wind, caught in their eyelashes and did not melt. With each step, their feet sank into new piles of snow.
Where Dylan and Clare lived, it snowed occasionally, but not often. They had never seen a blizzard. Clare thought she remembered reading that, where blizzards did occur, they could come up suddenly, catching people by surprise. Is this a blizzard? Clare wondered. Who ever would have thought that, in so short a time, the weather could change so drastically? Thinking about blizzards, Clare remembered that she had also read about people who had been caught out in blizzards and had actually frozen to death before they could reach shelter. Clare ran the two steps necessary to catch up to Dylan and grabbed his arm to get his attention. He turned and the sight of his red face with ice caught in his eyebrows and eyelashes did nothing to calm Clare’s growing fear.
“D-D-Dylan.” Between the cold and the fear, she could not help the stammering. “I’m scared. We c-c-can’t stay out in this. It’s too cold; it’s too big.”
He almost shouted at her, out of his frustration at having no solution, and his teeth chattered too. “I don’t know what to d-d-do! I don’t know where to go! I just know we’d better not stand still.”
“But where are we going?” Clare wailed, her voice almost one with the wailing wind. “I’m soaked. I can’t feel my toes!”
Dylan cast about in his mind for an idea of any kind, but the effort was fruitless. The minute of standing there, saying nothing, did, however, enable the cousins to hear a sound coming in faint bursts over the roar of the wind. “That can’t be a motorcycle,” Dylan muttered. “You can’t ride a motorcycle through snow this deep.”
“A snowmobile!” Clare cried. “I’ll bet it’s a snowmobile!” And she began to dance in her excitement. “What can we do? How can we make him see us?”
“I have a feeling it won’t be that hard,” Dylan answered, more to himself than to Clare. “And I bet I know who’s on the snowmobile.”
The engine noise grew louder. Soon, in the distance, against the dull gray and white of the storm, a bright splash of canary yellow appeared. Clare began waving her stiff arms to signal the driver. “Clare,” Dylan cautioned, “you know who that’s likely to be.”
“Don’t say that!” Clare moaned in her dismay at realizing what Dylan meant. “It can’t be him! It just can’t be!” But she stopped her waving and let her arm fall lifelessly.
It was, of course. The yellow snowmobile buzzed cheerfully to where Dylan and Clare stood, freezing, and came to a halt, the engine continuing to run. The rider wore a quilted snowsuit, thickly padded, and heavy waterproof mittens. The ends of his pants were stuffed into high snow boots. His face peeked out from under a furry hood. Mr. Smith lifted his goggles, then uncovered the part of his face hidden by a big scarf. He smiled as though he had just come upon others out for a little recreation, like himself. “Isn’t this perfect weather for this kind of thing?” he beamed. “And what a gorgeous landscape, huh?” he chuckled. “If you like lots of nothing. Why, I’ll bet the only thing you could grow on this piece of land is—cold!” He laughed at his own joke.
Mr. Smith pretended to look more closely at Dylan and Clare. “And I believe you’ve produced a bumper crop of that very thing!” He shook his head. “When are you children going to learn? You can’t go off on these wild goose chases for towns that are just pretend. It keeps landing you into trouble. Look at you—you’re soaked, you’re shaking all over, there’s ice on your faces—and there’s no help in sight—nor any towns, make-believe or otherwise. Admit it—weren’t you better off back at the Visitors’ Center, just enjoying Holiday vacations once a year? This certainly isn’t what you wanted, is it? Admit it—you never should have come. Then I’ll happily load you onto my snowmobile—” Mr. Smith inched to the very front of the snowmobile’s long seat, making room for additional riders, “and I’ll have you someplace warm in a jiffy.” He tapped the seat. “This even opens, and I have blankets inside you could wrap up in for the ride back.”
Straightening up as best he could, Dylan tensed his muscles to try to make them stop shivering. He clenched his teeth together to silence their chattering. Before he could voice his firm “No,” however, the little man leaned toward him, and said, softly, “But what about Clare?”
Dylan glanced around at Clare. Her body shook uncontrollably. Her clothing and every hair on her head dripped icy water. He wondered if her mind was being affected, because he saw her looking all around, absently.
“It’s all well and good to try to play the stubborn hero yourself and prove to us all how tough you can be,” Mr. Mr.Smith purred, “but what about your little cousin? You don’t have much time, you know,” and his voice grew insistent. “She needs to get out of those clothes. If she doesn’t, she’s going to end up as frozen and dead as everything else in this place.”
Dylan’s own mind seemed to be moving very slowly. Was Mr. Smith really speaking in slow motion? Because that was how it sounded. What was the argument? Oh, yes, Clare. Clare needed to get away from here for some reason. What was the reason? He turned to Clare to ask her—but she was no longer standing there. She had moved away from him and from the man and was plowing awkwardly through the snow. Dylan felt a touch of irritation. She can’t go anywhere now, he thought, we’re supposed to go somewhere with Mr. Smith.
“Oh, dear, Dylan,” Dylan heard the man call, and there was an unusual note of panic in the voice. “I’m afraid it’s already too late for Clare. You won’t be able to save her now. Save yourself before it’s too late. Come with me; get on the snowmobile. Clare would want you to. Come on, Dylan.”
Mr. Smith’s suggestion jolted Dylan’s fading thoughts into a fresh state of alert. Leave Clare here and go with that man? Unthinkable! But where in the world was she going? There’s nothing else to do, Dylan thought. I’ve got to go with her. And without another word to the man on the snowmobile, he turned stiffly and followed after Clare.
Winterland Manufacturing
Over the howling of the wind, Dylan heard Mr. Smith calling, urgently. “Don’t be a fool, Dylan, come back! Clare doesn’t know what she’s doing. She’ll just lead you off to die in this wasteland!” Then Dylan saw it. Clare was heading toward a little shack, built of gray wood, almost invisible in the winter storm. It had no door, just three walls leaning crazily and a roof sagging under its burden of snow. Small as it was, the shack’s interior remained dark, invisible. As soon as Dylan caught sight of the shack, he heard the angry revving of the snowmobile’s motor as the man sped away. He knew this was here, Dylan thought dully. He didn’t want me to see it. That’s why he tried to keep me from following Clare.
Clare had disappeared through the doorway. Dylan followed. Inside, the floor sloped steeply down, under the far wall, and it led down a well-lit tunnel,
farther in than Dylan could see. A small sign pointed down the hall to “WINTERLAND MANUFACTURING, INC.”Dylan and Clare stumbled down this sharply descending hallway. At least no snow fell in the tunnel, nor did they have to wade through any on the floor. They were already so wet and miserable, though, that they scarcely noticed. Their hearts sank when they finally reached the end of the corridor and found that it opened onto a snow-covered clearing, with more snow falling from overhead.
There was a difference though. Here the snow fell gently in great flakes. No wind blew. And the clearing floor had been swept clean, so that only a thin layer of snow lay on the ground, not deep piles. The clearing had been made in the center of a deep wood. Armies of large dark trees marched right up to the edges and stood all around. Dylan and Clare saw movement and bustle at the center of the clearing, near a number of buildings. From this center, a creature hurried now to meet them. As it approached, the children recognized it as a penguin, waddling as quickly as its short legs would allow. As it drew near, it called back over its shoulder, “Visitors! Bring something warm! And hurry! ”
Two other figures, shorter but much faster, separated themselves from the bustle at the center of the clearing and bounded after the penguin, and a third figure, taller than any of the others and pulling something behind it, followed too. Just as the penguin reached Dylan and Clare, the two Saint Bernards (for that was what they turned out to be) reached them as well. On their backs, they carried bundles, each tied with a big obvious bow. Little barrels were attached to the collars around their necks. The penguin pointed to one of the bows with his wing. “Go ahead,” he urged. “Pull the string.” Dylan pulled one with his stiff red fingers, and Clare pulled the other. The bundles easily came off the dogs, into the children’s hands, opening into thick, woolen blankets. Gratefully, Dylan and Clare wrapped blankets around their shivering bodies. “And those are thermoses on the dog collars. There’s hot chocolate in them. Just pull the collar apart; it’s Velcro,” the penguin added. The children obeyed, and soon chocolaty steam rose into their faces and their frozen hands wrapped around warm mugs.
The penguin made a courtly bow. “Welcome to Winter-land Manufacturing. We excel in tinsel and fresh icicles. We’re delighted to have your company.” Then, a little less formally, he added, “Looks like you had a hard time finding the place, eh?”
Dylan tried to answer, but his tongue felt like a thick wooden block in his mouth and he could hardly feel his jaw, it was so cold. The penguin held up a wing to stop him. “Ah-ah-ah,” he said. “Time to chat later. Right now, it’s hot baths, hot soup, and naps in a warm bed for you.” By then, the last figure to come toward them, a reindeer, had arrived. It pulled a sled, more blankets piled on the seat. Again with his wing, the penguin indicated the sled. “In you go,” he said. “He’ll have you somewhere toasty in a jiffy.” The children clambered into the sled and under the blankets on the seat. With another bow, the penguin waved the reindeer on.
Several hours later, having been thawed in warm baths, strengthened by hot soup, and refreshed by long naps under thick quilts, Dylan and Clare felt like new people. Upon rising from their naps, they had found heavy parkas, fur-lined boots, mittens, and woolen caps in just their sizes. Now, wearing these, they followed the penguin around the center of the clearing on a tour of Winterland Manufacturing, Inc. “Just one question,” Dylan was saying, “how did you happen to have all these warm things here, in just our sizes?”
“Oh, well, we do get visitors, you know,” the penguin replied. “And the Founder likes to make sure that, when they come, they have exactly what they need. Have you heard of the Founder?”
“Oh, yes, that’s why we’re here,” Dylan replied. “Originally, we just came to try to see the real Holiday, and to get authorized to come whenever we want to. So it was actually the Founder we were trying to find, since he is the only who could authorize us.”
Here the penguin interrupted. “Oh, you can’t find the Founder,” he said quickly, before Dylan could stop him, “he finds you.”
“Right,” Dylan said. “That’s what we’ve heard. Everywhere we’ve gone, we’ve heard more about the Founder, and he even seems to be kind of following us—or going ahead of us—or something. Anyway, I get the feeling that he knows all about us—”
The penguin glanced sharply at Dylan. “Of course he does,” he interposed.
“—and the more I learn about him, the more I’d really like to meet him, even more than I want to get authorized to go to the real Holiday. I don’t suppose he’s here somewhere? The stars said they couldn’t show us where he was, but they said we should come here.” And Dylan looked around, half-hoping, half-certain of disappointment.
“Well,” the penguin replied, “I can at least show you all around. Like everything else in Holiday, Winterland Manufacturing is here in his honor. If you don’t actually meet him here, you’ll at least learn more about him.” Dylan and Clare agreed, and the penguin puffed himself up proudly.
“Whether it’s at the Visitor’s Center at vacation time or in the town of Holiday itself, you’ll find tinsel garlands and icicle decorations. Well,” and the penguin’s chest puffed even fuller, “this is where all those decorations come from. Right here. We make them.” He waddled into a long barn, followed by the cousins. “This is where the caribou sleep at night. Right now they’re all out at work, although they’ll be coming home soon. It’s getting on toward evening. They go out each day, into the forest, and select the very finest icicles they can find. Long, silvery, beautiful—that’s the criteria. Only the best icicles can bear the Winterland Manufacturing name. The caribou reach up into the tree branches and carefully remove the very best icicles.” The three exited the barn, opposite the door they had entered, walked a few steps, and entered a smaller building.
“This is the kennel for the Saint Bernards,” the penguin explained. “They go out with the caribou, carrying insulated padded containers strapped to their backs. The caribou lay the icicles very carefully into those containers, to be brought back here.” The penguin led Dylan and Clare out of the kennel and to another building, far larger than any of the others. As the door of this building opened, a wave of noise poured out, greeting the newcomers.
Upon stepping inside, Dylan and Clare understood the reason for all the noise. Just inside the door, a huge company of penguins scurried about, all obviously very busy, and chattered contentedly to one another as they worked. At the far end of the long building, large polar bears shuffled about, also clearly busy with something. Near the large exit doors, walruses slid over the floor, kept wet for their sake, with some task of their own. Although Clare would not have thought it possible, the penguin’s chest swelled even larger here. “In this factory, we have our unique, prize-winning, secret process—which, sorry, I’m afraid I can’t show you—for turning regular frozen, meltable icicles into permanent, non-melting icicles—still long, silvery, and beautiful, of course, but in no danger of disappearing into a little puddle on the floor—the very icicles you will find as decorations in Holiday. That’s what the penguins do.”
The penguin led them on to the bears’ area. Each polar bear had a pile of icicles next to him. One by one, he took the icicles from the pile and strung them together into a long garland. Two polar bears held up one of these tinsel garlands, just completed, making sure that all the icicles stayed securely fastened. “Tinsel garlands, that’s the polar bears’ job,” the penguin stated, leading them past and over to the walruses. “Walruses are in charge of packaging,” he explained. Walruses on one side of the aisle were busy putting icicles into blue boxes, while walruses on the other side put garlands in silver boxes.
The penguin led the children back out of the building. Right outside the door, a number of small sleds waited in rows. “Tomorrow, husky dogs will use these sleds to take a shipment of garlands and icicles into Holiday. Too late for any more to go out today, though.” The penguin glanced at the setting sun. “In fact, it’s quitting time. Excus
e me for a second.” He stepped back into the large noisy building and made a loud whistle.
(Is that just a loud penguin noise? Clare wondered. Or does he actually have a whistle? She never did find out.) The penguin rejoined them. “Let’s go get a bite to eat. Of course, you’ll stay the night?” he asked.
“Thank you, yes, I guess we’d better,” Dylan replied. “I’m a little worried about going back through that frozen wasteland, even in daylight. I certainly don’t want to at night. But then, tomorrow’s our last day. Our passes will be used up at the end of the day. And I’m not sure we’ll ever find the Founder—or get found by him,” he added hastily, before the penguin could interject the familiar jingle.
“Not to worry about the frozen wasteland,” the penguin said, as they walked into a low log cabin that served as a dining hall and sat down. “You’ll go out with the dog sleds, riding one of them in fact. And you can keep all the warm clothes until you don’t need them anymore. Just put them all back on the dog sled when you take them off. And not to worry about the Founder, either. I’m sure you’re on the right track. Or he’s on the right track.” And the penguin chuckled and winked, but would say no more about it.
The children ordered chili and the penguin ordered fish. As they waited for their meal, Clare asked the penguin, “Do you have any idea why someone would work really hard at trying to keep people from ever finding the Founder and getting authorized?” And she explained about Mr. Smith and his snowmobile, along with all the other encounters with him they had had.
“Well,” the penguin answered thoughtfully, “the Founder didn’t just rescue the town to let it run along on its own, you know. He rules the town. He is its King. And he requires those who live in the town to obey the great Emperor as well. My guess is that your Mr. Smith is like the Darkness Dwellers. They don’t want to leave the darkness, because there, they’re free to do what they want to do, with no one telling them they shouldn’t do it. Mr. Smith probably thinks like this: If there’s no real Holiday, there’s no real Founder. If there’s no real Founder, there’s no King. And if there’s no King, I don’t have to obey anyone other than myself. So when people try to find the real Holiday and the real Founder, he wants to stop them.”
