The Ivory Tower

by Kirstin Pulioff

  She nodded and glanced across the street, where he and his brothers juggled a handful of apples.

  “You know how it is. We don’t have many options here…” her voice trailed off as she looked around the square and settled on her parents. “Mom thinks he’d be a good match for me. I know they would have preferred one of the official’s kids, but no one’s near my age. And he is handsome…” she let the words linger, with a sidelong glance at him.

  I cocked my head to the side and looked at her. How had I missed that? “I didn’t know you felt that way, not after—”

  “Nothing’s final yet though. Terms can’t even be discussed until I’m in the factory,” she said quickly, holding out another sugar block.

  Terms? I hooked my feet tighter under the post to keep me from falling backwards. I had never thought about that. In all the unfairness of camp, I hadn’t thought about the one thing that could take her away. For my entire life, she had been my one constant. The one stability in a world that ripped everything away, and now, I felt it. A small tear between us—something we couldn’t share.

  “Isn’t he too old for you?” I argued.

  “Too old,” she laughed. “You know he’s only a couple years older than us.”

  I knew, but for some reason I was trying to find an excuse, any excuse.

  “And besides, there aren’t a lot of choices here, for any of us. You know that too. This will be a good thing for me. Please try and be happy. Simone?” she asked, leaning over to look at me. “You’re pale. Are you feeling well?”

  I pressed up a small smile and nodded, trying to find words that didn’t convey my feelings. “Yeah, of course I’m fine,” I said quickly. As the lingering tone of the third bell fell silent, I cast a sideways glance toward Christine. “It’s almost gone, you know.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Your bruise. Maybe we should go back.”

  Christine’s eyes widened, and she touched her cheek like I had slapped her, pulling down a section of hair over half her face. “That’s not funny. I thought we talked about that yesterday.”

  “Well about going back there…but…it’s one of our last days. You know we won’t get this chance again once we join the factory. Even I can’t get us out of there. I’m not going to waste my last few days of freedom. And the woods are so much more fun with you. So…”

  I popped a final cube in my mouth and waited. I could see the choices weighing in her mind. Responsibility versus friendship. A simple choice for me, but it tortured her. Her eyes shifted everywhere, shoulders sagged as she rolled her rations bag into her belt pouch. When she finally looked at me, I recognized defeat. “Fine, but just today.”

  I tried to hide the excitement surging inside as I jumped down from the fence and tightened my tangled ponytail. Today was all I needed.

  * * *

  Christine shuffled her feet, digging in with resistance.

  “Come on,” I said. “One last time; you promised.”

  Her gaze lingered on the edge of the forest, then me, then to the ground, refusing to settle. The shadows stilled her feet.

  “I don’t know…” she whispered.

  I sighed heavily and squished my eyes together in a way to emphasize guilt. “You promised.” She didn’t know that I had no choice, at the first step inside the forest, the seductive pull of the tower called to me. “You can’t leave me now; come on,” I urged, playfully pulling her behind me. We had a long way to go, and not nearly enough time. I doubted there would ever be enough time. “School’s already started. You’d be in just as much trouble for being late,” I reminded her.

  Her eyes widened, and for a moment, when they rested on me, the glint of anger unsettled me. But she stepped forward, and that’s what I was waiting for. I didn’t care; today was about me.

  My heart raced in anticipation. I assumed this was what others felt like on their birthdays. This was my gift.

  “You better start counting,” I said, watching Christine fumble with the metal clasp to the pouch on her belt pulling out a multi-colored bag. She rolled the bag of paint in her palm, the anger in her eyes turning mischievous. A crooked smile rose on her face.

  “You’d better start running. It took days to get the yellow out of my sweater. We’ll see how long it takes you to get out the blue,” she taunted. She was back.

  “That’s if you can find me,” I yelled back, already blending into the greens of the forest. “Don’t forget who always wins.”

  “One, two, three…”

  I ran into the woods, feeling the cold air attack my face. The biting chill stretched my cheeks, chapping my lips with their touch. I didn’t dare glance back or slow down, knowing that the moment Christine stopped counting, my own time slipped away. My carefully-placed feet moved silently in the underbrush. I balanced on the fallen logs as much as possible, to lessen the disturbance and leave fewer footprints. Christine wasn’t as skilled at tracking, but there was no way she didn’t know where I was going. No matter how good a liar I was, even I could see through this manipulation.

  At the moment the countdown began, I dropped all pretenses of the game. I was going to the tower. While part of me understood Christine’s reluctance, another part felt compelled to see it again. That part won.

  The air quieted. Only the crunching of leaves and branches, and the occasional fluttering of wings sounded. The forest deepened around me. I passed the rock quarry, the fallen hemlock, the high wall of brambles, and finally, the small river. The compulsion of the tower pulled me. I made quick time through the forest, running until my chest caved with exertion. The miles had never disappeared so quickly. I splashed through the cold water, skipping along faster and faster. The bite of the rocks through the leather diminished with every step.

  And then suddenly, I saw it. A layer of grime had settled over the years, shading the outer edges of the brick. Silent steps brought me to the edge of the clearing, where metal thorns peeked through the brambles. The corroded barbs teased me, looking harmless. I grasped the cool metal. A shiver of certainty shook me.

  Wind rustled through the branches, sending a shower of golden and carmine leaves down from the overgrown web of branches. They settled around the base of the tower. The visions that haunted my dreams for the past week transformed into reality. My chest ached. That same feeling of fear and curiosity burned through me. I itched to touch the bricks. It was more than that. I needed to feel those bricks, press my head against the soft moss on the edge and run my fingers over the worn mortar. I ignored the whispered warnings at the back of my mind. I couldn’t lose this…I wouldn’t get another chance.

  I breathed deep and closed my eyes, making sure the image in my mind matched the resonance in my heart.

  “I told you…” Christine’s voice piped in, faint and distant, but close enough. Too close.

  Branches swayed at the edge of my vision and birds cawed from above. The forest jumped to life. My time had almost disappeared. Without a thought, or second breath, I gripped tighter along the barbs and threw my legs over, cursing as the teeth tore into my right shin.

  Pointed brambles and decomposed leaves broke my fall.

  “Simone!” Christine called out louder.

  “Crap,” I mumbled, tumbling over the pile of debris and underbrush. I slid under the hanging sign and into darkness, resting my back against the cool stone wall. The fortress muffled Christine’s calls. I imagined Christine outside, and recalled her horror-stricken face at the original discovery. A pang of regret sunk in and the betrayal. Had I pushed it too far this time? I shook my head. Now was not the time to worry about that. Even if I had the time, I didn’t want to. The thoughts simply hurt too much. I put it out of my mind, compartmentalizing it with the other memories I couldn’t face in the daytime and focused on the world around me.

  The tower enfolded me in its mystery. The containment of the walls quieted the air into deafening silence. Pinpricks of light snuck in through the cracks between uneven stones highli
ghting small areas, while the rest settled into gray haze. The air felt heavy. A chill settled onto my skin like a damp rag. My leather shoes were quiet on the floor, leaving a small wet imprint on the smooth surface. The spiral steps rose steeper and narrower than I anticipated. I climbed higher, fighting the trepidation that grew with each step.

  Charcoal smudges streaked the walls in forgotten insignia and images—the world surrounded by stars, letters forming acronyms, and words unfamiliar to me. I swallowed hard, choking on the lump of fear lodged in my throat. I wiped my hands on my thighs.

  The staircase ended at the threshold of an imposing doorway. Similar to the main gates of camp, faded letters stamped the heavy beams, metal studs pierced the worn wood, and a red light sat on top. My fingers rested on the door, feeling the smooth groove of the wooden beams. I pushed the door open, cringing as the creaks echoed throughout the room, and then jumped as it crashed into the back wall.

  The air assaulted my senses. An overbearing aroma of cigars and sweat thickened the air. Even with shattered windows, the scent lingered throughout the corners, recycled with the short gusts of wind. My feet and heart raced in opposite directions. Frozen in place, my heart chest hammered. This wasn’t right…and yet, I wouldn’t leave. The pull of the tower still held me, and I stepped forward, knowing in the pit of my stomach that I was in trouble.

  The wind shrieked through the shattered windows, whistling sharply and rustling the papers. Under the broken glass a long desk held two work stations covered with paperwork. Charts and graphs fluttered under the weight of worn bricks. Two swivel chairs banged against the side of the desk, twisting with the wind.

  On the wall behind the desk, a set of framed photos hung evenly along the wall. I recognized the first picture immediately. The same picture hung in the meeting hall, and in the cabin; a reminder of the camp’s foundation. I had stared at it for hours over the years while ignoring Mrs. Booker, trying to make sense of the blurry images, but the yellowed paper and burned edges made it impossible. In this pristine version, details jumped out. People I knew, and several hundred that I had never seen before posed for the camera. I had always focused on the center where the president shook hands with the farmers, raising the flag at center camp. Even with its torn edges and small burns, the symbol reminded us of what we had survived. I traced the frame and moved to the next.

  My heart plummeted and I grabbed the frame from the wall. “That doesn’t make sense,” I said.

  The frame slipped from my grasp, crashing to the floor, shattering on impact. Hundreds of sharp shards covered the ground in a glass mosaic. I knelt down and picked up the frame, shaking out the remaining pieces. A small drop of my blood smeared the president’s smirk.

  This wasn’t the president I knew. Not the same one who protected us from contamination, who proclaimed the world beyond the confines of the few remaining camps to be a desolate waste. The sheen of this photo gleamed, almost as polished and new as the shirts of the men laughing from atop one of the armored ration trucks. Laughing at us. The same symbols as the charcoal etchings at the base of the tower, a globe surrounded with stars, marked the side of the vehicle. I looked quickly back to the first picture and saw our camp flag hanging limp, a shred of its previous glory, trying to put the pieces together. Nothing about it made sense. At least, nothing I wanted to admit. The more I saw though, the more certain I became; something was wrong here.

  Before I could give it another thought, a flash of movement caught my attention. Against the far wall, a rectangular cabinet held six monitors. Three of the screens flickered with wavy lines and sporadic images of camp…center camp, the fields…the factory. Curiosity pushed down my uncertainty. Hooked again, I walked closer to the screen, hesitantly tapping the side of the screen for a clearer image.

  “Figures,” I sniffed, watching Mrs. Hutchings appear on the screen briefly, then shrink as the line of school kids followed her down the street. A tight line of children held each other’s hands and disappeared, one-by-one, into the classroom. I couldn’t get away from school no matter how hard I tried.

  My eyes slowed on the second monitor showing a panorama of the fields and greenhouses, but the face I unknowingly searched for never appeared. The last monitor focused in on the main gates, and the slow march of the guards on top of the wall.

  Beneath the monitors, three other screen remained dark. I bit my lower lip and tapped the knob, fighting against the growing knot in my stomach. I knew I shouldn’t turn it, but couldn’t resist. Curiosity won. I turned the knob, and the screen came to life. I exhaled slowly.

  Faces stared at me; familiar, but blank versions of the women from camp. Squeezed together, elbow to elbow, their arms blurred with a frantic pace. Piles of fabric threatened to topple as a steady stream of guards removed the finished projects and handed them new ones.

  I anxiously turned the next knob. The dark screen lightened into a dimly lit room. Piles of clothing lined the back wall. Floor to ceiling, velvets, silks, and lace towered in the background. I rolled the hem of my shirt between my fingers and stared at the screen. How could that be?

  I hesitated on the final knob. Unease pulsed through me. I closed my eyes and twisted, re-opening them after the click and hum of static. My palm shot up to cover my silent scream. Secured to a chair, a man sat still. Dark welts opened on his chest. A trail of blood led down his body and over his restrained legs. A small pool collected on the ground, rippled by the drops. His head rolled forward, blank eyes staring at the ground. In the background, I saw the stiff pleats of the uniform, and the edge of a knife. The tortured man’s chest heaved as his head was yanked back by his hair, and the knife positioned on his throat. My fingers trembled and quickly twisted the knob.

  The pieces connected. The bells ringing throughout the day, the Colonel, rations, the factories and farms, the hidden torture. I looked down at my sweater and felt the thick cuff the sleeve where my number was sewn.

  With my mind clear, I heard Christine’s cries below. I ran to the long desk, knocking a chair to the floor. I didn’t care about the loud crash, I needed to get out of there. Christine had been right.

  “I’m coming!” I croaked, then coughed to clear my throat.

  Standing on top the desk, I saw Christine. Pacing next to the barrier of brambles, my friend’s voice echoed as a raspy sob. I bent down to grab one of the bricks and stopped.

  The soft edges of the brick wore beneath my fingers, leaving a layer of red dust on top of the paperwork. I looked at the desk and the dust, and swore. The clean desk, the bundled paperwork—the tower wasn’t abandoned. I wasn’t safe.

  I swore again and clambered off the desk, racing for the door. A surge of panic hit me as the red light spun. No longer idle and asleep, the red flashed a warning. Thumping of footsteps grew louder.

  Limited options raced before my eyes. It was too high to jump and too open to hide. I had one option left, the least likely—to fight. I crouched against the far wall, shivering in fear, and grabbed the brick from the paperwork.

  A man entered the room from under a fog of smoke. I lunged across the room at him, slipping on scattered glass. Instead of smacking his head, the brick brushed off the side of his arm. He grabbed my wrists. A deafening pop sounded, forcing the brick loose. It landed with a soft thud in front of me as he flung me across the room. Pain shot through my shoulder and radiated down my arm to tingling fingertips. I looked up and bared my teeth at the guard. He exhaled, hiding his face behind a cloud of smoke. It didn’t hide his cruel smile.

  “Why are you doing this?” I yelled, cradling my right shoulder. “You’re supposed to protect us. You’re here for our own good!”

  He came forward, his calm demeanor shaking me to the core. His steps slowed by the framed photos, taking a moment to put the second one back on its nail.

  “It is for the good of the people. Our people. We did protect you. We protected you from yourselves. Your country was a mess. You were fighting against each other—poverty, drugs
, narcissism, commercialism. You name it, you destroyed it. Here, life is…sustainable. You’re regulated, productive, and held accountable. All the previous issues are gone.”

  “What about our freedom?” I asked.

  “There’s a cost for everything. It’s a new world out there, number 677,” he said, nodding to the cuff on my sleeve. He flicked ash to the ground. “It’s time you understood the program.”

  He unbuttoned a pocket behind his colorful insignia, and pulled out a small black case. His thick fingers flicked the end of a syringe until a stream of clear liquid ran out.

  I whimpered and dragged myself into the corner under the desk.

  “You won’t get away with this. I’ll tell the others,” I said.

  He stopped for a moment. Then he laughed and puffed stale smoke in my direction.

  “Like they’d believe you. If they wanted to know, they would know. The truth’s always been there. You’re not the first, and I am sure you won’t be the last to figure it out,” he said, reaching down to grab my ankle. “In fact, we encourage it. We like playing with our trouble makers. I’ve been looking for a new toy.” He crept closer, his dark eyes gleaming.

  “You said there were others; what happened to them?” I asked, dreading the answer.

  He tapped the edge of the syringe again. The soft clicking echoed in the small room. “Some handled the medicine better than others. But either way, no one remembers a thing. Now just stay still. This won’t hurt a bit.” The twinkle in his eyes turned flat. He chuckled as the needle scratched the surface of my skin.

  “Not me.” I snarled and shoved him back, kicking him between the legs as I raced toward the door.

  I only made it two steps before my body smashed to the floor. My palms and cheek struck the floor first, and the air whooshed out forcefully. He pulled on my leg, twisting me around until my bones popped. I bled from the broken glass. A warm, metallic taste pooled in my mouth. The ringing in my ears erased the sounds of my friend’s cries.