Keeping Holiday

by Starr Meade

  That set the little tree off again. “You must think this is a pretty big forest, if you think that it could hold the Founder!” it managed to gasp, in between outbursts.

  Dylan had begun to feel somewhat annoyed with the little tree’s giggling fits. Its father felt the same way, apparently, for it now said, sternly, “That’s enough. This is really not the time to be silly.”

  “I can’t help it,” the tree protested, “he has such funny ideas.”

  “You will help it,” the father tree replied, “or I won’t let the squirrels play in your branches when they come later today.”

  That produced an instant effect. The little tree made a noise as though it were choking on something—another burst of laughter, Dylan thought—then grew silent. A slight tremble in its branches gave the only evidence of how great an effort this cost the little tree.

  The older tree turned its attention back to Dylan. “The Founder doesn’t live here,” he told him. “This is his forest, though. He’s the one who planted it, right up against that cave. People who keep Holiday—and even many who don’t—enjoy the trees of this forest.”

  Dylan and Clare turned to each other, their faces lit with the same idea that had just occurred to them both. “The trees on the way into Holiday,” Clare said.

  “The ones that seem to smell more pine-y and to look more beautiful than trees at home,” Dylan added.

  The little tree spoke up, its fits of silliness over for now. “They’re from here,” it said with pride. “Trees from the Forest of Life. All the trees in this forest are evergreens, and only evergreens. Pine trees, fir trees—trees that never lose their leaves and look dead. We’re evergreen trees; we are ever green, alive all the time, even in the dead of winter. We’re Forest of Life trees, we are,” and the little tree seemed to draw itself up to be an inch or two taller.

  “Oh, then maybe this was where we were supposed to go,” Dylan said. “We were trying to get to the city of Holiday—the real one, you know, not just the fake one that we always go to for vacations—and we got to a gate we couldn’t open. There was a sign that said we needed Proof of LIFE—was it talking about this forest?”

  The young tree emitted the tiniest trace of a giggle, but quickly got it under control. “This is where you’re supposed to be and some little proof that you’ve been here is exactly what you need.”

  “What kind of proof ?” Dylan asked, looking around him.

  “Cut off a piece from one of my branches,” the father tree suggested. “Don’t worry—that’s one way plants are better than people. Cut a piece off of you, and it’s a real problem—cut a piece off of a plant and the plant just grows better. Here, look, this little bit of branch right here,” and it waved a branch.

  Dylan took out his penknife and did as the tree said, although he could not help feeling that there was something wrong with cutting a piece from a tree that could talk. The tree, however, did not seem to mind in the least. Dylan put the piece of branch in his backpack, and asked, “And where do we go from here? You already said no one goes back into that cave once they’re out; how do we get back on our way to the real Holiday?”

  “Go straight on through the Forest, and you’ll find, when the trees begin to grow scarce, a little winding bit of a road that will lead right to that same gate that required proof of life. Once you’re through that gate, you’ll find yourself in a part of a town that you won’t much like. It’s not Holiday, that’s for sure, but another little town just on the outskirts. Stay alert and watch out, because it’s not a safe place.”

  “Is that the only way to get there?” Clare asked.

  “It is for first-time visitors,” the tree answered. “Your goal is a pretty little park in that part of town. If you keep following the widest path, you can’t miss it. It’s a very pretty park, and perfectly safe, despite its surroundings. You can spend the night there quite comfortably.”

  “Will the Founder be there?” Dylan asked. “Because that’s what I really want—to find the Founder so I can be authorized to get into Holiday whenever I like. And,” he added, “to thank him for getting me out of the cave.”

  The little tree corrected him. “You don’t find the Founder; he finds you. He’s not just the Founder; he’s the Finder too.” The tree giggled, just a little. “That rhymed.”

  “I know,” Dylan said. “I’ve heard it before.”

  “But remember,” the father tree said, ignoring all the interruptions, “you must have a visitor’s pass or you can’t get into the park. And if you don’t get in the park, you might as well turn around and go back home.”

  “Not a problem. We have visitor’s passes,” Dylan said, holding his up.

  “No, but you have to have one when you get to the park,” the little tree said.

  The big tree leaned over so that it was touching the smaller tree. “Don’t worry about it,” it said. “They’ll have what they need when they get there.”

  “Well, thank you,” Dylan said, starting off.

  “Yes, you’ve been tremendously helpful,” said Clare.

  “And thanks for the piece of branch,” Dylan added, but he couldn’t be heard. The little tree could contain itself no longer and was laughing hysterically once more. “Did you hear what she said?” it was gasping. “We’ve been tremendously helpful. Get it? Tree-mendously!” And it roared with laughter.

  Places of Evil

  Those trees give a whole new meaning to the words, ‘living plants,’” Dylan said, as he and Clare walked on through the forest.

  “And the whole forest is like that,” Clare replied. “It’s like when you’re in the woods right after it rains and you see big drops hanging on the ends of everything, just waiting to fall. This forest is like that, only instead of drops of water ready to fall, it’s dripping with—well, with ‘aliveness,’ if you know what I mean.”

  The cousins walked for a moment in silence, then Clare said, “In fact, I’ll be sorry when we’re out of this forest. The next place doesn’t sound nearly so nice.”

  “True,” Dylan agreed, “but I’m sure it’s okay or the trees wouldn’t have sent us that way. Hey, look, isn’t that the gate up there?”

  And sure enough, Dylan and Clare were coming out of the forest and were back at the gate that had refused them entrance earlier. This time, when Dylan inserted his pass and the gate asked for “Proof of LIFE,” he waved the pine branch near the screen. The gate clicked and swung open. The children stepped through.

  Immediately inside the gate stood a bench next to a bright green stand with a box at the top. Large letters on the box’s lid said, “Take one.” Dylan opened the box and took one of the papers that were inside.

  “Maybe it’s more directions about where to go,” Clare said.

  “Not exactly,” said Dylan, reading the paper and seating himself on the bench. Clare sat too, and Dylan began to read out loud. “It says ‘Holiday’ at the top,” he began, “then it says:

  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.

  Dylan sat for a moment, grunted, “Hm,” then got up to return the flyer to the box.

  “Don’t you think we should hang on to it?” Clare suggested.

  “I guess so,” Dylan answered, folding the paper and putting it in his shirt pocket. Then he began to walk on down the path.

  Just as the tree had said, now that Dylan and Clare were inside the gate, they found themselves in the narrow streets and dirty sidewalks of a not-so-nice part of what seemed a not-so-nice town. Concrete covered almost everything, resulting in a dull gray sameness wherever on
e looked. Passers- by had scrawled their names and other words in large, painted letters on the dirty buildings. In spite of the occasional trash barrel, wrappers, bottles, and cups littered the ground.

  “The tree was certainly right about one thing,” Dylan said. “I don’t like this part of town. But following the widest path is easy enough, and hopefully that park’s not too far off.”

  “But let’s hurry,” said Clare. “The sun will be going down soon. I really don’t want to get caught here in the dark.”

  The two quickened their steps. Some of the people on the sidewalks also walked with quick steps. These people seemed preoccupied with business of their own and paid little attention to anyone else. For the most part, they walked alone. Occasionally, two of them hurried along together, but without speaking to each other. A man in a business suit almost collided with Dylan, but Dylan jumped aside. “No, tomorrow’s not good enough!” the man growled into a cell phone that he held in one hand. His other hand, curled into a fist, struck the air angrily. “It’s today or you can just forget it!” The man went on his way. He did not seem to have even noticed Dylan.

  Some people wandered about in small groups, apparently with no destination, or stood slouching in the road. They laughed and made inaudible comments to one another while staring boldly at strangers passing by. These people seemed to feel a need for excitement, and Clare felt their need would only be met by doing some kind of mischief.From behind her, Clare heard a crash and the tinkling of broken glass. She jumped and turned around. Dylan did too. Two boys ran, laughing, from a storefront window with a hole in it. An old man in an apron was coming out of the door of the store, shaking his fist. “You punks!” he called. “You’ll laugh in the back of a police car!” No sooner had the old man said this than a police car tore around the corner and squealed to a halt in front of the boys, blocking their path. Two uniformed men jumped from the car, seized the startled boys by the arms, clubbed them over the head with sticks several times, then forced them into the car. The car drove away.

  “What was that?” Dylan asked.

  “I don’t know who to feel sorry for,” Clare said, “the old man or the boys! Aren’t policemen supposed to read people their rights, or something?”

  “Maybe those rules don’t apply here,” Dylan suggested.“Let’s keep moving. I’m with you that the sooner we’re out of here, the better.”

  Dylan and Clare went on. At one point, their path led them right between two of the groups of slouching loafers. The two groups stood on opposite sidewalks. They eyed one another across the street and smiled mocking, dangerous smiles. Dylan and Clare hurried past, not wanting to be there when the storm that seemed to be brewing in these loiterers should break.

  Still following the widest path, the cousins turned a corner. The scenery changed abruptly. “This is better,” said Clare, relieved. This street led past green well-kept lawns where large houses flaunted impressive doors and large, imposing windows.

  Fences, some wrought iron, some made of stone, others wooden, enclosed every house. Each fence had at least one sign reading, “PRIVATE PROPERTY. KEEP OUT.” Some fences also had signs reading, “KEEP OFF THE GRASS” or “NO TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED.”

  “Or maybe it’s not so much better,” Clare added. “Something’s wrong with this neighborhood.”

  “It’s loud, for one thing,” Dylan said. “You’d expect a neighborhood that looks like this one to be quiet and peaceful.”

  “Well, it certainly isn’t!” said Clare. And it certainly wasn’t. From some houses, televisions and stereos blared at highest volume. From many houses, angry voices could be heard. From one open window, Dylan and Clare heard the raised voices of a man and woman.

  “Who asked you anyway?” the man’s voice roared. “I didn’t marry you so you could boss me around.”

  “Yeah?” shrilled back a woman’s voice. “What did you marry me for, then? Because for the life of me, I can’t imagine what I was thinking when I married you!” At that, a curse word rang out, along with the sound of something being smashed. The children hurried on down the sidewalk.

  “Look out!” Dylan cried in a sharp tone.

  Clare jumped back so that the flashy sports car just missed her. Its driver was backing at top speed out of his driveway, which crossed the sidewalk. His eye caught Clare and, instead of stopping to apologize, as the children expected, the driver leaned from the window of his car and yelled, “Watch where you’re goin’!”

  “One thing I think we can say for sure,” Dylan said. “These people are certainly not part of Holiday’s authorized personnel! Remember that list of requirements?” And he pulled it from his pocket and read, “‘Do, speak, and think only what is kind; keep tempers, emotions, and mouths under control at all times.’ Wherever this is, it must not be part of Holiday.”

  The sidewalk led past a park, where two groups of boys with bats were choosing teams. Dylan heard a clear voice snap, “I don’t want him on my team; he can’t even hit the ball!” Dylan whipped his head around to see the speaker because something sounded so familiar. Of course, Dylan did not recognize the boy who had spoken, but when he looked at him, the boy looked back at Dylan and held his gaze for a moment. Suddenly, Dylan realized what it was that he had heard before. It was not the speaker’s voice; it was what he had said. The last time Dylan had played baseball with his friends, he had said those exact same words about Sam Parker. Was that how he had sounded? But Sam had never hit a ball in his life; why did he always want to play with the guys when they got together for baseball?

  The houses looked a little less expensive now, although they still had the fences and the “Keep Out” signs. Dylan and Clare came up to a red light and stopped to wait for the “Walk” signal. Across from them, an old man in a motorized wheelchair and a teenage boy walking toward Dylan and Clare waited to cross as well. The light turned green, and Dylan and Clare stepped into the crosswalk. On the other side, the elderly man started first in his wheelchair, forcing the teenager to walk behind him until they had passed Dylan and Clare. “Come on, old man, could you go any slower?” the teenager called out.

  Dylan’s first reaction was one of shock that someone would say such a thing to an elderly man. Then, with an even greater shock, Dylan recognized the teenager’s words as the very words he himself had said, not even a week ago! Oh, he had only muttered them under his breath, and the old man in question had not heard them, but they had been the exact same words. “Come on, old man, could you go any slower?” Even though the old man had not heard Dylan at the time, his friend Danny, who was with him, had heard and had laughed—which was just what Dylan had hoped for. Then Dylan got his third shock. The old man was just at the point of passing Dylan and Clare, so Dylan could clearly see the spiteful grin that spread across his face at the teenager’s words.

  “I’ll take all the time I want, kid, and I don’t care who has to wait!” the old man said.

  “Nice place,” Clare muttered, but Dylan did not answer. He was too stunned by the way two strangers in a row had said the exact words he remembered saying himself. For one thing, the coincidence was just too weird; but for another thing, hearing these things said right out loud by other people made him see how nasty they really sounded. And then it happened again. They passed a church whose doors were open, with well-dressed people entering. A mom, a dad, and their son were coming from the parking lot, and the son was complaining, for all the world to hear. “Why do you always make me come?” he groused. “I hate coming! It’s boring!” And once again, Dylan recognized himself. That was what he thought almost every Sunday.

  The widest road, the one the tree had said to keep to, turned again, and Dylan and Clare were back in the part of town that was dirtier and run-down. Little groups of slouching people still loafed there, pointing at passersby and whispering. Shadows were growing long as the afternoon drew to a close. The cousins hurried.

  When they first heard feet coming after them, they walke
d faster and tried to ignore them. The footsteps began to run, then, so they whirled around to see who followed. “Oh, it’s just him,” Clare said, as they both recognized the pleasant-faced man who had such an odd way of turning up wherever they went.

  “It is you,” Mr. Smith beamed. “I thought so, but it was hard to tell from the back. Bad part of town, this, isn’t it?” he said, shaking his head. “Bet you’re glad you don’t live here and that you’re not like these people.” As always, the man’s voice was friendly enough, but Dylan felt that the look Mr. Smith fixed on him was somehow accusing and mocking at the same time—as though he realized what shameful things Dylan kept hearing people say and realized, too, that Dylan had said or thought them all himself. Mr. Smith shook his head again. “This is what we get when we go looking for a real Holiday,” he said. “There is no such thing. The best we can do is just enjoy our vacations in Holiday once a year and hold on to the memories. What you see here is just what people are, everywhere, all the rest of the time.”

  “Oh, no!” Clare countered. “People in the real Holiday aren’t like this—Dylan, show him your list,” and Dylan reached, reluctant, for the flyer in his pocket.

  The man waved his hand. “Oh, no, save yourself the trouble,” he smiled. “I’ve seen the list—always kind, always keeping one’s temper and mouth under control, thinking of other people, not just yourself—isn’t that how it goes? Where are you possibly going to find people like that to live in such a place?” He winked at Dylan. “Do you think you’ll get authorized?” He chuckled softly, then gave a friendly wave. “Maybe I’ll see you again,” and he went on ahead of Dylan and Clare.

  “The nerve of that guy!” Clare said. “He was insulting you!” Dylan didn’t answer. He was too unhappy. He had been thinking the very things Mr. Smith had implied—if, in order to be authorized for Holiday a person had to fit the requirements on the flyer in his pocket, it did not look like he, Dylan, would qualify. Would it be possible to convince the Founder—if he ever met him—that Dylan could see now how ugly some of his past actions and attitudes had been and that he was truly sorry? Would the Founder believe him if he promised he would never be like that again and would prove to be a credit to Holiday? Dylan hoped so with all his heart and moved on, Clare following, in the same direction the little man had gone.