Keeping Holiday (14 page)
As soon as Dylan and Clare stepped out from behind the trees surrounding the candle shop, they saw the mountain, rising tall in front of them. There was something almost comical about its appearance, as it shot straight up into the air, like an upside down ice cream cone.
There won’t be anything funny about
trying to get up that, though,
Dylan thought.
That’s steep!
“Well,” Clare said, almost as if she had heard Dylan’s thoughts, “this part of our hike is nice enough. It’s an easy road, the weather’s perfect—not a cloud in the sky. And isn’t
that
great after that dark alley?”
They had come to the very edge of Holiday Village. There were hardly any shops here, and even the houses grew scarce, with great stretches of open field between them. The road itself remained fairly level, in spite of the great mountain waiting at the end of it. Clearly, this road’s only purpose was to lead hikers to the mountain. It did not skirt around the bottom or branch off in some other direction. It marched straight up to the mountain, then stopped. At least, that was how it appeared until Dylan and Clare actually stood at the mountain’s base. There they found the road, transformed into a narrow footpath, going on and up. “Oh, good,” Dylan said, “at least there’s a trail,” and up they started.
From the very beginning, the trail proved to be much harder even than it had looked. For one thing, it was terribly steep. (Clare did not like to think about going back down. What would keep you from running or sliding all the way?) Every few minutes, both children had to stop to get their breath, and muscles in their legs protested the unaccustomed strain. Sometimes, the trail would disappear under a pile of rocks, and the hikers would have to clamber up and over huge boulders the best they could until the trail appeared again on the other side. Other times, the trail crossed great flat surfaces of slanted, slippery stone or flows of small, loose rocks that could easily shift. Dylan would glance down and wonder briefly what would happen if the rocks began to move under his feet.
All the while, the trail continued to wind around and around the mountain, always leading higher. The road down at the bottom appeared first as a wide scarf, later as a slender belt, and finally as the thinnest of ribbons. At that point, Holiday Village itself, and Holiday, right next to it, were tiny toy towns alone in a great valley. “Let’s take a break,” Clare panted, and Dylan nodded, out of breath himself. They went far enough from the path to get under the scant shade of a large boulder and sat down.
“It’s
hot!”
Dylan said, holding his sweaty shirt out away from his skin, hoping to catch any breeze that might happen by. None did.
“I need some water,” Clare said, reaching to open the backpack Dylan carried.
Dylan stiffened. “Oh no,” he groaned, “I forgot to fill the bottle back at the candle shop. I don’t think there’s much left.”
Clare pulled out the bottle. Dylan was right. Only a few mouthfuls remained in the bottom. “Of course, I didn’t feel all that thirsty before,” Dylan said, “but now I do.”
They each drank a swallow, leaving the tiniest bit more for one last drink. Once they had caught their breath, they began the climb anew. Of course, the closer to the top they climbed, the harder it grew. The path became ever steeper, the sun beat ever hotter, their clothing became ever wetter with perspiration, and their legs began to tremble. And still they had more trail ahead—the hardest part of it at that.
The cousins paused to rest again, but this time there was nothing big enough to give shade anywhere near. They stood on the trail with the hot sun beating down on them and warming the air they were gasping. “Do you think this is worth it?” Dylan said, more to himself than to Clare. “To talk to some bells? There must be plenty of other people in Holiday that could tell us about the Founder.”
“Well,” Clare said, almost reluctantly. (The thought of stopping
was
attractive.) “The candlemaker said we should do this. And remember, he said it’s possible to get to the top; you just have to really want it.”
“That’s just it,” Dylan answered. “I’m beginning to wonder if I want it this much,” but he started back up the path again. After going only a few more steps, Dylan suddenly stopped. Clare, who had been watching her feet on the trail, almost bumped into him. Startled, she looked up to see why he had stopped.
The children had rounded a corner. There, right in front of them, just at the very edge of the trail, stood a tree, the only one they had seen on their hike. It was not a large tree, but it was taller than a person and its branches reached out and provided shade. Under the tree, taking up every inch of the shadow it threw, stood a wooden booth, painted bright blue. On either side of the booth, a canvas chair, well-shaded, hung from the tree. Over the booth, a banner read, “R&R REST AND REFRESHMENT” and underneath it, in smaller letters, “SEEKING? COME IN HERE.” On the counter, tall glasses waited next to pitchers of iced liquids.
The first reaction of both of the cousins was relief. They could taste, they could feel, the icy liquids going down their throats. But they had not been imagining this for even one full moment when they saw the problem. They knew the man who sat behind the counter. It was Mr. Smith. “Welcome, welcome,” he called out, beaming. “Don’t
you
look like you could use a break?”
W
e’d love a break, and a drink especially,” Dylan answered Mr. Smith, eying the sweating pitchers with longing. “But what’s the catch? We know there’s a catch.”
“No catch, no catch,” Mr. Smith replied. “Just come on up, sit down, settle in, stay as long as you like. We’ll meet your needs, and we’ll make no demands.”
“No demands?” Dylan asked with suspicion, reaching for a glass in spite of himself.
“We just want you to be comfortable,” the man assured them. He took a pitcher to pour water into the glass Dylan held. “You can stay here forever if you want and we won’t ask anything of you. Or you can go back down.” The pitcher was over Dylan’s glass and the first drop of cool water hung from its lip, ready to fall.
“And up?” Dylan asked. “We can keep going up when we’re ready, too, right?”
Mr. Smith straightened the pitcher and jerked it away from the glass Dylan held. “Not up,” he said. “This R&R is intended for those who want to stay put or for those going down. Only.”
“That’s mean!” Clare cried, since Dylan was so startled by the sudden disappointment that he was speechless.
“Me, mean?” the little man protested. “Whoever told you to go up this mountain was mean! I’m offering you shade, rest, refreshments; I’m not mean. What do you think you’ll find when you get up there? Some bells, that’s all. And what are they going to do? Ring, if anything. How is that worth such a tough climb on such a hot day? You can stay right here and have all you need.
“Not to mention,” Mr. Smith continued, reaching down under the counter of his booth, “if it’s music you want, check this out.” He pulled up a small loudspeaker and set it on the counter. “We have songs about the Founder right here. You don’t need to go all the way up there for bells. I promise you’ll like these songs—all about the Founder and how good he makes you feel and how much you want to find him. And all the while, you can be sitting right here in a comfortable, shaded chair—”and he gestured at the swinging chairs—“sipping on your favorite beverage.”
Dylan, angry in his disappointment over the drink, muttered, “You’re pitiful.” He turned to Clare. “Come on, Clare, let’s go,” he said and started on his way again. Clare followed. Behind them, they heard the clinking of ice cubes as Mr. Mr.Smith poured a drink. They heard a noisy slurp, followed by a long “aaahh” of satisfaction. A switch clicked and music began to play.
Dylan said nothing. He fixed his eyes on the steep incline ahead. Crunching the gravel underfoot, his feet marched up the trail, his legs moving up, down, up, down in a steady rhythm. Clare found it difficult to keep up. Dylan was angry. She was sure of that, but she was glad to see the difference his anger made in his approach to this last stretch of the trail. It seemed she had left behind at the blue booth a weary, wilting cousin, ready to give up. In his place, a determined hiker now led the way.
Still winding its way around and around to the top, the trail turned another corner. From here, the music from the radio no longer reached them. Clare, who had fallen farther and farther behind, finally called out, “Dylan! Wait for me!” Dylan stopped and waited for Clare to catch up. They both stood and panted.
“Sorry,” Dylan said. “Guess I was mad. I am
so
tired of that guy!”
“That’s okay,” Clare said. “It sure gave you fresh energy!”
“You know,” Dylan said, “I don’t know why it’s so important to that man to keep us from finding the Founder and getting authorized for Holiday, but I do know this. The more he tries to stop us, the more determined I am that it must be worth whatever it takes.” Dylan pointed ahead, up the trail. “Look, I think we’re almost there. I bet that corner up there is the last one, and the trail after it goes straight to the top. One more big push and we’re there.”
So they pushed on, and a very big push it proved to be. The trail leading to that last curve in the road was so steep that Clare felt she was walking straight up. Once she rounded the curve, she realized though, that, no,
that
hadn’t been straight up;
this
was. A solid wall of rock, several feet taller than her head, met her. She might have thought it impassible, if it weren’t that Dylan had already started up. That’s when she saw the small foot and handholds scattered about on the rock face. “Here goes nothing,” she muttered, and started up after Dylan. She climbed up cautiously, and when she had used the last crack for placing a hand, she found Dylan’s hand, reaching down from the top, to help her. Clare took it, scrambled up after him, and stood panting, knees and arms trembling.
Here at the top, a delicious breeze played with their hair and tugged at their clothing. Dylan and Clare turned to face it, letting it dry their perspiration. The top of the mountain was about the size of a small yard for a house. The cousins were surprised to see that it was covered with a lush green lawn. (
I wonder who waters it,
Dylan thought,
and
how
he waters it.
) At the opposite side of the lawn stood the little church, its white, wooden walls weathered, but in good repair. A bell tower rose up from its rear wall. Through the open front door, a shady interior invited entrance.
“I hope there’s some water in there,” Clare said.
“Let’s go see,” said Dylan.
They crossed the lawn in a few strides and stepped through the door, finally finding relief from the merciless sun. The church’s windows were open and the same delicious breeze they had enjoyed outside blew through the interior. Nothing other than windows decorated the wooden walls. A few roughly fashioned benches sat on the bare concrete floor. Off to the side, a doorway opened onto stairs leading to the bell tower. But the thing that first caught the cousins’ attention was the drinking fountain sitting in the back corner of the room. Its cooling unit hummed happily.
“Oh,
yes
,” Clare breathed with relief, and hurried across for a drink. She was very thirsty, so while Dylan waited for his turn, he had time to wonder how a drinking fountain could be in such a remote spot—and with an electric cooling unit, even!
When Clare had finished and Dylan stepped up for his drink, he saw a small plaque on the side of the fountain. It read, “Courtesy of the Founder.”
Of course,
Dylan thought,
I should have known.
He bent his head and drank what was surely the coolest, freshest water he had ever tasted. Whatever the man at the blue booth had been giving away, it could not have been as good as this.
When Dylan had drunk all he wanted, he straightened to find Clare already through the door leading to the bell tower, her foot poised on the first step. He crossed the room to her, and, Clare in the lead, they climbed up the stairs. The stairs wound round and round, up the tower, and came out on a wooden platform at the very top. The walls here were broken up by large openings, windows with no glass in them. The breeze that had blown gently through the church downstairs, gusted through these windows, causing some swaying among the bells that hung in two rows from beams in the very top of the peaked tower. On one end of each row hung the largest bells. The bells grew progressively smaller down the rows until, at the opposite ends, hung the smallest ones.
The middle-sized bell right in the middle of the front row swayed more than any of the others, so that a slight ringing was actually coming from it. Dylan thought that was strange. He was about to say, “I thought bells were rung by people who pulled ropes,” but as he opened his mouth to say it, Clare held up her hand for silence, with a listening expression on her face. Dylan closed his mouth again and listened. Then he heard it too. The bell was actually ringing words. “All right, everyone,” it was saying. “When the wind picks up again, we’ll take it from the top, all together this time. Do just like we did it when we rehearsed in sections, and it will be perfect. And altos, remember, stay with the basses, and don’t let the tenors get drowned out.”