Keeping Holiday

by Starr Meade

  The man did not seem to recognize Dylan, however. “Good morning,” the man said. “Got your passes?” “Right here,” Dylan noddedeagerly, holding up the pass. Was he actually going to get into the real Holiday at last? “Now, you do understand, don’t you,” the man said, “that you must keep these passes with you at all times?” Both Dylan and Clare nodded. “Lose ’em,” the man continued, “and you lose the right to be in there at all—ever—and you’ll get stuck with a hefty fine. And you also understand that once you go in you have a total of four days for using this pass, then it expires for good. After that, you can only get in again if you’ve been authorized. And only the Founder can authorize you.”

  “Yes, we know,” Clare answered for both of them. “Do you think we’ll find the Founder once we get into Holiday?”

  The little man peered at Clare, as though she had said something truly startling. After a minute of staring, he answered, “You don’t find the Founder; he finds you.” He paused briefly, and added, “He’s not just the Founder; he’s the Finder, too.” He paused again. Then his face broke into a grin, and he opened his mouth to say one more thing.

  But before he could say it, Dylan said quickly, “That rhymed.” The man’s mouth snapped shut and the grin disappeared. “It did rhyme,” he said quietly. Then, he stood and inspected both of their passes. “Have a nice visit,” he said, and held open the gate that led from the garden.

  no Way Out

  Dylan stepped through the gate first, with Clare right behind him. They hurried down the path to the overlook, and looked down. There it lay, the real Holiday, its walls, its towers, and its banners glistening in brilliant shades of red, gold, green, and blue. Clare stood still and stared, her mouth open. She closed it at last, then opened it again to say, “Oh, Dylan, isn’t it beautiful?”

  Dylan nodded. “I can only imagine what it’s like up close! Come on,” he said and started off down the path leading to the city. The barricade that had stopped him before was up. He stepped past it, Clare right behind.

  Then Clare called, “Dylan, wait.” Dylan looked back to see Clare pointing to a sign just on the other side of the road. “Look.”

  Dylan looked at the wooden, arrow-shaped sign. It pointed in exactly the opposite direction from the entrance to the beautiful city. The words on the sign read, “FIRST-TIME GUESTS TO HOLIDAY. THIS WAY.”

  “That’s crazy!” Dylan said. “Anyone can see that Holiday is the other direction. It’s not that way at all. Come on. Let’s go the way we can see we should go.” Dylan turned back and set out once more toward the city. Clare hesitated, shrugged, then followed. She had to hurry to keep up. Dylan, in his excitement, walked briskly, talking all the while.

  “It’s not just that it looks pretty,” Dylan said to Clare. “There’s so much more to it than just the way it looks. It’s the way it smells and the sounds you can hear—and just the way it makes you feel. I want to feel that way forever. . . .” Dylan’s voice trailed off and he stopped in his tracks, looking at another wooden, arrow-shaped sign they had come to. The sign pointed back the way they had come. “FIRST-TIME VISITOR ?” it said, in large letters. In smaller letters underneath were the words, “WRONG WAY.”

  Dylan looked at the sign suspiciously, as though he suspected it of playing a joke on him, but he said nothing. He shook his head slightly and continued on, without changing direction. The children walked on in silence for a few more minutes until they came to yet another sign, again of wood and in the same shape, pointing back the way they had come. This one read: “WARNING! WRONG WAY FOR FIRST-TIME VISITORS!”

  “Maybe we should go back the other way,” Clare suggested. “What you really want is to get authorized so you can come whenever you want and stay as long as you like, right? If you keep ignoring the signs and someone finds out, you might not get authorized.”

  “But going in the opposite direction is just plain silly!” Dylan replied shortly, and continued down the path. Clare did not argue and walked with him in silence.

  Soon, however, their path stopped in front of a high wall with a gate. Dylan tried the gate. It would not open, but a small screen in the wall lit up. Words came onto the screen with these directions: “To open the gate, give proof of LIFE and insert your visitor’s pass into the slot.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Dylan asked. “What does it want to do, take my pulse?” He found the slot and thrust his pass inside.

  After a few seconds, the pass came back out. The screen lit up with these words: “Rejected. First-time visitor. Proof of LIFE required.”

  “Look how LIFE is in all capitals,” Clare pointed out. “Maybe LIFE is a place that other path leads to. Maybe once we get there, we get some kind of stamp on our pass or something.”

  This made some sense to Dylan, but before he could answer, Clare pointed at the screen. “Look,” she said, “it’s saying something else.”

  Dylan looked. The letters had changed and now the screen read: “Warning. Attempts to ignore posted signs may result in permanent loss of visitor’s passes.”

  Dylan gave up. “All right. I guess there’s no other choice. We’re going to have to waste who-knows-how-much of our four days going in the opposite direction from where we can see we ought to go.” He cast one last, longing look at the city with its rich jewel colors and turned his back on it. Together, the cousins began to retrace their steps. Before long, Dylan and Clare were back where they had started, at the first sign pointing the way for first-time visitors.

  They passed the sign and followed the road through the woods, then across a grassy meadow, and up a little hill. From the top of this hill, Dylan and Clare could see another hill across from them. Nestled between the two hills lay what appeared to be a garden park. In the park, a footpath wound through tall, stately cypress trees. Stone statues and small markers dotted the park’s open spaces. Twisting up and over many of the statues, ropes of ivy grew wild and untended. Near many of the markers, golden flowers added flecks of color. A black wrought iron fence enclosed the whole park, its gate standing open. Dylan and Clare’s path led through this gate. Pointing in, one more sign read, “FIRST-TIME VISITORS. THIS WAY.”

  The cousins descended the hill and passed through the gate. “This is all very pretty,” Dylan muttered, “but I really didn’t want to visit a garden. I wanted to get to Holiday.”

  “It is pretty,” Clare agreed, “and peaceful. Almost too peaceful. It feels very serious, like a place for having some kind of ceremonies.” She and Dylan were walking on the footpath now, as it wound in and out among the trees. The only path to be seen, it led the two deeper and deeper into the garden, toward the base of the second hill, where it appeared to dead end. Once they reached the base of that hill, though, Dylan and Clare found that the path continued, leading into a rounded opening that had been cut in the rock.

  Dylan and Clare peered into this entrance. The path seemed to go straight back, through a long hallway or tunnel, into the hill itself. Clare looked at Dylan. “So what do we do now?” she asked.

  “I guess we go in,” he answered. “The sign at the gate said, ‘First-time visitors, this way.’ There’s no other path. This must be where we go.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” a man’s voice asked.

  Dylan jumped. He turned to see where the voice had come from. Off to the side, on a bench half hidden by a bush, Mr. Smith sat watching Dylan and Clare.

  “I didn’t see you there,” Dylan said, once he got over his surprise. He held up his green visitor’s pass. “Are you using one of these too?”

  Mr. Smith stood up and came over to Dylan and Clare. He flashed his usual pleasant smile. “Oh,” he said, “are we talking about going to the real Holiday again?” He looked around. “Are we there now? Is this it?” And he smiled again.

  “No, this isn’t it,” Dylan said, “but all the signs point this way. They say first-time visitors need to come this way first. You must have seen the city when you came down the path.
”

  “So you haven’t been to the real Holiday?” the man asked.

  Dylan and Clare shook their heads. “Not yet,” Clare said.

  Mr. Smith nodded. “Of course not,” he said. Another pleasant smile. Then he said, as if to himself, “Children always want a bigger and better Holiday.” He shook his head. Then he put his hand on Dylan’s shoulder and gazed into his eyes. “There’s only one way to have a bigger and better Holiday,” he said earnestly, “and that is by hanging on to the good feelings and the brotherly spirit you have while you’re in the Holiday we visit on vacation. Some day, when you’re older, you’ll understand that.” He let go of Dylan’s shoulder and gave it a little pat.

  “But for now,” Mr. Smith said, “I heard you say you were going to go through that doorway. It’s okay to be childish sometimes—it’s charming, really—but even children should understand about safety.”

  Dylan peered through the doorway again. “What’s unsafe about it?” he asked. “It’s a good, wide path; it’s even paved. It just goes straight; you couldn’t get lost. And there’s plenty of light.”

  The little man, usually so goodnatured, had become quite serious. “I don’t like to scare you,” he said gently, “but you really mustn’t go in there. Many people have, but far fewer have come out.” And he shook his head sadly.

  “Why?” Dylan asked. “Why don’t they come out?”

  “They get in there and they get stuck,” Mr. Smith replied. “They’re not able to get back out again.”

  “If it’s that dangerous, why do all the signs point in and say that’s the way to go?” Dylan asked. “There aren’t any warning signs.”

  The man looked into Dylan’s face and muttered, “Poor, innocent child.” Then, to Dylan, “It’s never occurred to you that someone might be playing a trick on you?”

  “That would be a pretty nasty trick!” Clare protested. “Deliberately trying to get someone to do something dangerous!”

  Mr. Smith turned and looked her full in the face. He nodded. “Exactly my point,” he said. Then he added, “I have to go now. But please, take my advice. Don’t go in there.” He raised his hand briefly, in a sad gesture of farewell, as if afraid he might not see them again. Then he turned and walked back along the path leading out of the park.

  Dylan watched him go, then said to Clare, “You’re right. That man is strange.”

  “More than just strange,” Clare said, with a shiver. “He gives me the creeps.”

  “Oh, I don’t think he means any harm,” Dylan said. “He’s just odd.”

  “What was all that scary stuff about going through the door?” Clare insisted.

  “Maybe he really believes all that,” Dylan answered. He peered through the doorway once more. “It’s true that you can’t see how far it goes.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t go in,” Clare said.

  “It must be okay,” Dylan assured her. “These are official signs, and they point this way. Plus look at how well they maintain the path. Come on; we’ll be fine. If we don’t like it, we can always turn around and come back out.”

  Together, the cousins stepped over the threshold and through the door in the rock. Dylan expected the dampness and the mustiness. What took him by surprise was the immediate sense of having entered some place foreign. The familiar world of sunshine, trees, and singing birds was only one step behind him—he even glanced over his shoulder to make sure that was still the case—yet it seemed ages since he had been out there. Still, there at their feet, the broad, well-maintained path led on. Dylan began to walk, and Clare followed.

  “I wonder how many visitors actually make it to Holiday if this is how they have to get there!” Clare’s cheerful words sounded out-of-place in the silence.

  Dylan knew she was trying to keep up her courage, and answered her in the same light tone. “I don’t think our friend Strange Man will try it,” he said. But his comment, too, seemed inappropriate, as if someone had made a joke, right out loud, in the middle of a funeral. Both children fell silent and made no further attempt at conversation. On they walked until the doorway was just a small glimmer of light behind them. The pathway actually grew broader the farther they walked. It appeared very well traveled. Eventually, smaller trails began to branch off, but since they were small and unpaved, it was impossible to mistake them for the main road.

  The first moan Dylan heard came so softly that, once it died away, he convinced himself that he had never heard it. The next moan was also quiet, so quiet that he thought Clare had just sighed. The third moan, though still quiet, was definitely a moan, and it caused Dylan to say, “Clare? What’s wrong?”

  “Me?” Clare whispered back. “I thought you were making that noise.”

  Then it came again, a long, drawn-out shuddering groan. Now that it was louder, Dylan could tell that it came from off to the right somewhere. It must be far away, he thought, and he found that comforting.

  “It’s not an animal, is it?” Clare whispered.

  “I’m sure it’s a person,” Dylan answered.

  “I think I’d feel better if it were an animal,” Clare said. The noise came again, still louder, sounding like a wolf ’s howl in the dead of night, yet decidedly human. Then another wail came and another, each fuller of grief and despair than the last. Whatever was making that noise had experienced something sadder than the saddest story Dylan had ever heard. The deathly stillness after each wail only made the next one more terrible.

  “Listen!” Clare whispered sharply. “There’s a new one.” Dylan listened. Sure enough, a new voice had begun to moan off in the distance on the other side. As if in answer, more cries, and then more, started up until mournful wailing surrounded them. “This is very creepy!” Clare muttered.

  “But all that noise is far away,” Dylan replied, trying to calm his own nerves along with hers. “And look, you can still see the doorway back there. And the path is still well kept along here, so people must go this way. Plus look how light it still is.” Dylan had been struck by this before. There was still light. It was not a natural light, like sunlight, and it was not very bright, but it was adequate to see by. Dylan could see no source for the light, but there it was and it was a tremendous help.

  The cousins walked on, neither of them wanting to make it worse by saying so, but both of them hoping they had not much farther to go. Dylan had been so distracted by the dreadful noises that he had failed to notice the odor that had been steadily growing as they progressed deeper in under the rock. Now this odor had become so strong that it finally forced him to notice. Just as he did, Clare whispered loudly, “Ugh! What is that awful smell?” A memory flashed into Dylan’s mind, the memory of coming upon a dead rabbit in the field near his house. The rabbit had evidently died several days earlier and it had smelled terrible, with an odor very similar to what was all around them now.

  “I can’t take much more of this,” Clare said, out loud, but quietly. Dylan heard a tremor in her voice. For a brief moment, he felt a surge of revulsion for this evil-sounding, evil-smelling place. He had to resist the impulse to turn and run back the way he had come. Unexpectedly, a different memory arose from who-knows-where, replacing the memory of the dead rabbit and offering a stark contrast to the current surroundings.

  “Clare, Holiday is just as wonderful as this is awful—more wonderful,” Dylan said urgently. He spoke quietly, but he no longer whispered. Clare would not have been able to hear a whisper over the distant moans that were coming in constant, loud waves. “It smells awful in here, but I remember the smells from Holiday. I’ve never smelled anything like them—not just smells, the feeling. And this moaning is horrible, but I remember the music I heard from Holiday. It wasn’t just music—it was like people I wanted to be with forever calling me to come join them. I’m sure it’s worth all this to get there. Once we’re there, we’ll forget about all this. I know we will.”

  Just then, all the moaning and all the wailing stopped. A dead silence that could almost be fe
lt filled the tunnel. And then one long, piercing, terrified shriek rang out. Was the screamer a male or a female? Was it a child or an adult? Dylan could only have said that, again, it was a human. Surely, it was a human who had come face-to-face with the greatest of all horrors.

  “That’s it!” Clare whispered fiercely. “I don’t think I can take this.”

  And before Dylan could reply, Clare turned on her heel, and took two quick steps back the way they had come. Dylan saw her hesitate, then step to the right, then to the left. She seemed to be looking for something she could not see. Then Clare stopped altogether and came slowly back to where Dylan stood. She was crying.

  “What is it?” Dylan asked.

  “The opening is gone,” Clare replied in a lifeless monotone of despair.

  “No, it’s not. I can see it back there,” Dylan answered, and he turned to face the entrance into the tunnel, way back in the distance. As he turned to face it, though, the entrance disappeared. In its place was an unbroken rock wall. Not only that, but the path they had taken disappeared as well. Since the way had become so wide, Dylan could not even tell where in the distant wall the opening had been. “How can that be?” Dylan said to himself. He turned back around, facing away from where the opening had been, and looked over his shoulder. When he looked over his shoulder like this, the hole in the rock was there, leading out into daylight. Dylan quickly turned to face the opening and, just as quickly, it disappeared once more.

  “That must be what the man meant,” Clare said in a shaky whisper. “We’re not going to be able to get out.”

  The wailing recommenced. It began quietly, but quickly grew to full strength once more. It sounded even more desolate than before.

  Dylan tried to resist the rising tide of panic he felt inside. “Well, maybe we can’t get out that way, but we’re not supposed to go that way,” he said, sounding much more certain than he felt. “Look up here.” He pointed ahead. “See how the path goes down into that—chamber, or whatever you call it. I’ll bet that’s the way out.”