by Starr Meade
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!
Dylan 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.
Clare glanced at Dylan. To her surprise, he was stepping out the door r
esolutely and replying, “Sure. We’ll help,” then, turning to Clare, “That’s okay with you, Clare, isn’t it?”
“Sure it’s okay with me,” said Clare. “I’d be happy to help. But, Dylan, what about the Founder? What about getting authorized? This is your last day.”
“Hey, Mert,” Dylan called. Mert, elated at having found some volunteers, had hurried to the driver’s side of the cab and opened the door. With one foot already on the floor of the cab, he paused before springing up to the driver’s seat, and looked over his shoulder at Dylan. “How long do you think we’ll be,” Dylan asked, “if all three of us work together?”
“Why, if we make really good time, we may be able to get it all done today!” Mert seemed quite cheerful about this prospect.
“Do you think there’s any chance we could work really fast and be done before the end of the day?” Dylan asked.
Mert’s foot came back out of the truck cab, and he turned to face Dylan. He glanced at the abundance in the back of the truck, looked over his long list, and shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said slowly, “there’s an awful lot here. We can push for that, but I can’t guarantee anything.” Then he added reluctantly, “If you have another appointment, I suppose you’d better not chance it. You might be late.”
“That’s okay,” Dylan brushed off Mert’s suggestion with a wave of his hand. “It’s okay if we’re late.”
Shocked, Clare whispered, “Dylan, what do you mean it’s okay?”
“It just is,” Dylan answered. “I’m sure it is. I’m sure that we should do this. I think it’s what the Founder would want. I think it’s what the Founder would do if he were here. But, let’s hurry!” Dylan said this louder, so Mert would hear too. “It would be really good to be back within an hour or two before sunset.”
“Then step to it, let’s go!” cried Mert, jumping up into the driver’s seat. Relief at not losing his new volunteers had obviously given him a fresh burst of energy. Dylan and Clare scrambled onto the bench seat of the cab. Mert put the truck into gear and they rattled off down the street.
The truck stopped first at a small house inhabited by a very old man and his wife. Mert explained that the couple had adopted their three young grandchildren when the children’s parents had died. They had been faithfully providing them with food and shelter, but they had no extra money for playthings. So out of the truck came a large doll, several books, some cars and trucks, a ball, and a wagon.
Then the truck drove on to the home of a mother of four small children. She lay sick in bed. Dylan and Clare helped to unload a great pot of soup, some freshly baked bread, and a variety of cleaning aids. As the family ate, Mert, Dylan, and Clare swept and cleaned and polished and scrubbed. When they drove away, they left a sparkling clean house, a kettle of simmering stew, and a very grateful mother. On they went, to visit a restless boy who had been confined to his bed for a month; to take clothing to a family whose father had lost his job and had had to start over, working for less pay; to prepare a good meal for a couple who had just returned from a long, exhausting journey.
Dylan worked faster than he had known he could, racing against the shadows that steadily grew longer and longer as the sun traveled across the sky. He so longed to be back at the chapel before sunset, still hopeful that, perhaps, the Founder would come and he would meet him. Even in the middle of such tiring work, Dylan never stopped thinking about the Founder. He found himself, over and over, telling people about him. Even though he was just learning about the Founder himself, what he knew so far begged to be told, and tell it Dylan did. He told tired discouraged adults about how the Founder had called him out of the cave. He told families struggling to meet their own needs how, all along his journey, the Founder had been leaving him everything he needed. When Dylan gave aid to those whose need had resulted from their own poor choices, he freely told them how he had lost his pass in a fight and how the Founder had paid his fine. Everywhere he went, he realized that he knew something about the Founder that seemed helpful to the situation. And I’ve never even met him, Dylan thought to himself. Oh, I hope we get back in time.
Lunchtime came and went and the afternoon wore on. Still the three workers worked, washing dishes, weeding yards, cleaning toilets, cutting grass, heating meals. They visited sick and lonely people; they played with restless children; they delivered gifts and supplies. And all the while, Dylan tried not to notice how late it grew. Finally, they pulled up in front of the last house. This was the home where the refrigerator would be delivered, to an elderly lady whose old refrigerator had finally worn out and who had no money to buy another. Mert had a hand truck that helped him and Dylan a great deal in moving the refrigerator; however, the lady’s house was small and full of her personal treasures, so maneuvering the large appliance through the house and around corners required a great deal of strategy and many starts and stops. They finally succeeded in installing the refrigerator, and in convincing the happy woman that they really must go now, and headed back to the empty truck. Mert jumped in the air, clicking his heels together playfully. “Wa-hoo!” he cried. “We did it! We’re done!”
Immediately, Mert realized that, though Dylan smiled with genuine happiness for him, Dylan himself looked dejected. Mert stopped in his tracks. “Oh dear!” he said. “You wanted to be back at the chapel by sundown, didn’t you?” And Mert glanced at the sun, just about to sink below the horizon.
Dylan shook his head. “That’s okay,” he said. “I still think we did the right thing. I just really would have liked to meet the Founder.” He sighed. “Too late now, though; our passes have expired. Mert, there’s a gate on the road that we came through, just past the overlook where you look down into Holiday. Could you drive us back there, please? It’s time for us to go home.”
“Sure, I can take you wherever you like,” Mert said as they all climbed into the cab and he turned the truck’s ignition. The truck rumbled off down the road. “Do you mean to tell me,” Mert asked, “that you’ve never met the Founder?”
Dylan nodded unhappily.
“Hm,” Mert replied. “I was sure you had met him.”
“You haven’t even met him,” Dylan protested. “You said so yourself.”
“I said no such thing!” Mert answered. “Of course I’ve met him. Why do you think I spend so much time at this job?”
“No,” Dylan insisted, “I said I’d never met the Founder and you said, ‘Neither have I.’”
“No,” Mert corrected him, “you said you’d never seen the Founder and I said, ‘Neither have I.’” Then he added, “Are you sure you’ve never met him?”
“I’m sure,” Dylan answered with finality. “Do you think you could meet him and not know it?”
Mert considered. “It’s not likely,” he agreed. But then he added, almost under his breath, “But it has happened.”
The truck rumbled on, its passengers riding in silence. It drove through the streets of Holiday, even more beautiful as lights began twinkling on in the gathering dusk—and as Dylan realized he would never come here again. Mert took a steep one-way route up the hill and approached the gate where “Proof of Life” had been required when Dylan and Clare had first entered, four days ago. As they drew near the gate and the truck slowed, Dylan realized a group of—was it people? Or animals?—stood by it. Mert pulled off to the side of the road and shut off the engine.
Dylan and Clare got out of the truck cab, staring at the figures in front of them. The candlemaker of Holiday Village was there, easily seen by the light of the bright candle he held. In his other hand, the candlemaker held a bell. It looked just like the choir director Dylan had talked with up in the steeple of the church on the hill. With chest puffed up proudly as usual, the penguin stood by the candlemaker, waiting. Near him, on a high stool, sat the man who had first told Dylan he needed to be authorized to get into Holiday. Although before, Dylan would have said that all trees look alike, he was sure that the tree just by the side of the road was his tree, the one th
at had spoken with him in the forest. Yes, and there stood the little tree right next to it. Dylan was half-conscious of a question in his mind—how did they get here?—but he was too busy looking around for other new acquaintances to puzzle over it now. Yes, down at the bottom of the tree was a poinsettia plant, speaking quietly to a bunch of mistletoe that held to the tree’s trunk. Dylan could just make out the sound of the voice, without discerning any words. The voice sounded like that of his grandmother. Looking up, Dylan could see the very first stars of the evening. There were two. One star was obviously very close, for it shone very brightly. Next to it was a small twinkly one.
Feeling like he was in a dream, Dylan moved slowly toward the group gathered at the gate. Turning around to speak to Clare, who was just behind him, he shut his mouth without saying anything. Someone he had not seen before had just concluded a quick, quiet conversation with Mert and was moving forward too. Dylan stood still and waited for the man to catch up to them. The man wore clothes that were clean, but which were clearly intended for the out of doors. He had a tan, weathered face and carried what Dylan recognized as a shepherd’s staff. Dylan’s eyes quickly darted around, looking for some sheep, but he saw none.
