The Ivory Tower

by Kirstin Pulioff

  “No more,” I cried, curling into a ball, straining to keep my eyes open.

  “You don’t make the rules,” he said, walking towards me. His black boots kicked chunks of glass across the room, stopping next to me. He leaned over, flicking hot ash onto my face.

  “No, no, no!” My cries ended in a scream as the guard pressed his cigar into my right hand. Fire raced through my veins. The putrid smell of burning flesh soured my stomach. My screams echoed through the tower as darkness creeped in from the side of my vision.

  His last words echoed in my mind as I drifted off. “Don’t worry, my Ivory Princess. I’ll take good care of you.”

  * * *

  White light blinded me, straining my barely open eyes. Thunderous pounding exploded in my temples and through my forehead. I raised my hands to the side of my head. My fingers slid over the smooth tape and soft gauze. I jumped up, alarmed.

  An onslaught of pain and blinding lights flooded my head. I closed my eyes, willing myself to calm, waiting until the thumping subsided to nothing more than a muted annoyance. Slowly, I reopened them, careful to keep my movements slow.

  The ceilings were white, matching the walls, and a netted cloth hung from the ceiling around my bed. A creative ruse designed for comfort under the watchful eyes of the doctors and guards.

  Not as successful as intended, I thought, noticing the looks I received from around the room.

  The severity of the room softened as I saw my friend scrunched into the seat next to me. The majority of Christine’s body lay hidden behind a stack of medical supplies boxes, IV stands, and beeping monitors. I pushed myself up, flinching as flames shot up my right hand, overshadowing the pounding in my head.

  “Christine?” I croaked.

  My friend’s eyes fluttered softly and settled onto me with a sad smile. “You’re up, and okay,” she said, reaching for my non-bandaged hand. “You scared me.” She offered a gentle squeeze.

  “What happened?” I asked, fearfully glancing around.

  She scooted forward, the chair squeaking under her, and leaned in. “You don’t remember anything?”

  “It’s all foggy,” I admitted. “What happened?”

  Christine’s fingers trembled as she ran them through her hair, and lowered her voice. “It was that tower. I warned you about it; I told you to forget about it, but you couldn’t…or didn’t.” I heard an edge to her voice beneath her concern.

  “The tower?” I questioned, feeling haunted at the familiar words. “I don’t remember anything about it.”

  A look of relief washed over Christine, and her eyes softened. “That’s probably for the best. We don’t need to worry about that now. Anyway, you’re just lucky the guards were there to find you in time. Everything else will go back to normal. No one will even notice after a while. And we’ll be busy with the factory soon enough.”

  “The factory…” my voice slowly faded, and my eyes drifted around the room, noticing a small group of people looking over as they walked by. It seemed as if the room slowed, holding its breath to watch me. A crooked smile darkened a guard’s mouth as he checked off his paperwork, and nurses slowed as they walked past. Everything seemed to slow, except for Christine. Her words tumbled out faster than my mind could comprehend.

  “Wait, no one will notice? Notice what?” I asked, my voice quickening. I grabbed my face, feeling other bandages. “What really happened?” I asked, pointing to the gauze covering my forehead, feeling the tender wounds wrapped beneath bandages on my right palm.

  She opened her mouth to answer, but closed it, darting her gaze behind me and then to her lap. I followed her gaze and saw a doctor approaching in a stiff, pleated white lab coat. Blue and gold embroidered patches covered his pockets and collar. He pulled a red pen out from the chest pocket of his lab coat and tapped it against the edge of a clipboard. His eyes twinkled darkly under the florescent lights.

  “You gave us a scare, young lady,” he said, checking the vitals on the machines. “Care to tell us what you were doing by that tower?”

  I glanced over at Christine, but she still looked at her lap, her hands twisted around each other, white knuckled.

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” I answered quickly.

  His red pen marked notes in my chart before he continued. “Your friend and the guards brought you in a week ago. They found you near the abandoned tower in the woods. If she hadn’t gotten there in time, there’s no telling what might have happened. You were lucky. The contaminate levels in that area are still off the chart. It’s a blessing you made it here when you did, and that we still had the old medication.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, barely louder than a whisper.

  He raised an eyebrow. “If I were you, I would be a bit more grateful. You’re lucky the guards were there to protect you, and to protect the rest of us from any contamination. We had to take drastic measures to save you, and your body may be scarred,” he said, nodding toward my hand. “But, you’re alive. I hope you’ve learned a lesson. The boundaries are there to protect us; for our own good. It would serve you well in the future to remember that.” He looked at me hard before making final marks on the chart.

  “For our own good,” I whispered, letting what the doctor had said float in my mind.

  I looked outside. The frayed tips of the striped flag blew in the wind. When the bell rang its familiar chime, I closed my eyes. My head hit the pillow, and I sighed.

  “Yes, it’s for our own good.”

  I stopped counting and opened my eyes. Silence magnified the shuffling of leaves and the harsh caws of the crows.

  “Ready or not, here I come,” I boomed, assessing the empty forest around me. Nothing stood out in the overgrown underbrush, just shades of greens, splashed with the occasional bright red dots of the salmonberries. After a quick glance down at my olive green leggings, worn thin around the knees, and scratchy burlap tunic, I smiled. I blended into the forest perfectly, a ghost among the neglected trees. With a quick crack of my fingers and a tug on my ponytail, I began.

  “You’d better have a good hiding spot this time,” I taunted, hobbling away from my starting point. One step in and already Christine had an advantage. I leaned against the nearest tree and shook out my left boot, watching as small pebbles poured out. The tattered shoes matched my flimsy clothes, and I knew that would not be the last advantage my friend would get.

  Soft strands of sunlight fell on me through the partially cleared canopy, reminding me of autumn’s quick advance. The cold season’s bitter winds might wreak havoc on their camp, but here in the forest, scattered leaves painted the floor a mosaic of colors. Leaves discarded by the maple trees crunched beneath me as I began my search. I quickly altered my steps, slipping my toes beneath the curled tips of the leaves, minimizing the noise as I ran.

  I had learned small nuances like that over the years. I also knew, looking at the leaves falling around me, that even though fall had just begun, winter would be close behind, restricting us to the camp. Winters were severe here, and nearly as soon as the leaves changed colors and fell, snow trespassed.

  Today would be one of our last trips out here.

  Maybe that’s why I slowed my steps, letting the game play out moments longer than usual. Whenever Christine hid, game over quickly followed. But not today. Not when the brief splashes of sun through the trees still warmed my arms. I wanted to push the limits and extend the game, even if it meant losing a bit of my pride.

  It was the only thing I really had, and rarely would I freely give it up. In fact, the only times I did lose were on occasions like this, when something more enticing dangled in front of me. In this case, a fond memory to warm me through the bitter cold months. I would do almost anything for a respite from those long months. Even lose.

  Not obviously lose though; no one appreciated pity. Technique was involved. I slowed my steps, pretending to miss the broken branches marking the edges of the game trails, and hid my smile at the blur running away at the edge
of my vision. I could lose, but not enough for Christine to sense the deception. That would devastate her, and devastating her would ruin me.

  Manipulation was commonplace for me in the orphanage, but I had learned early on that it didn’t work on her. She prided herself on honesty and integrity, and expected me to follow suit. In camp we didn’t have much but our word, she cautioned. So, I became good at pretending. So good that sometimes Mrs. Booker, the orphanage caretaker, shot strange looks at me in the evenings if I forgot to drop the act. Just like Christine, Mrs. Booker had an ability to sense the manipulation, only she called it bullshit and slapped it out of me if it lasted too long. It had happened so many times that now I referred to them as love taps. And Mrs. Booker sure loved me.

  This time I didn’t have to fake too much. My scrappy leather boots needed repair, and even though I had already dumped out a pile of pebbles, new sharper rocks took their place, jabbing my feet as I climbed through the woody debris. I pressed on, tucking my hands into the cuffs of my sleeves. The further into the forest I went, the darker and more oppressive the weather turned.

  “Come out, come out,” I teased, cursing silently that my breath showed in the cold. If Christine saw that, she’d jump out of her hiding spot, common sense getting the better of her. I felt the end of the game encroach. It was the same here as it was in camp—things I had no control over dictated my moves.

  That leash of control tightened around my neck like a noose, suffocating me before I even knew what was coming. That noose had a name though, and the closer it came to winter, the more frequently it tugged against me. The camp, the regulations… the factory. The large, oppressive building at the edge of camp where the women disappeared daily, only to be spat out at night, worn and tired. Our age had kept us safe, but now, at sixteen, our time had come. And even though I had become a pro at skipping school, the factory was different. Only a lucky few had been able to escape its clutches. Promoted out, they called it. But even I knew I wasn’t the promotion type. I had to enjoy these last gasps of freedom.

  I ignored my clouding breath and trudged forward, hoping my enthusiasm would keep Christine from bailing too soon. We had played this game for years, revising it as we went along, upping the stakes. This time, everything was laid on the line, much more than pride or a pouch of paint.

  “You can’t hide forever,” I goaded, my smile reaching through my words. I slid gracefully through the game trails, mimicking the smooth movements of the deer, weaving neatly between brambles, dormant hives, and traps. In my haste, I missed the darker patches of mud and gasped as the cold guck sloshed through the hole in the bottom of my boots, sending shivers down my spine. I jerked my head up at the surprising misstep, and caught her gaze. Fear flashed in her eyes before she turned and became a blur of red at the edge of my vision.

  I had caught her. My fingers deftly unclasped the steel container tied to my belt as I kept a watchful eye on the swaying branches in the distance. Carefully pulling out a small bag, I smiled and rolled the coagulated paint in its plastic pouch. I tossed the package between my hands, careful not to squeeze and break it.

  Training my ears to the forest, I heard the trampling of bushes, skittering of animals, and a loud thump as she fell. I smiled. Christine had been my friend for years, and despite her natural grace, she lost all delicacy of movement at the first sign of danger.

  Slow and deliberate, my steps announced my approach. I couldn’t stretch it any longer. The air filled with the crunching of leaves, shuffling of rocks, and cawing of the crows. Then I sped up. Over the rocks and around the trunks, my mind hummed with triumph, my heart beating a tempo for the victory song. The shades of green blurred as I narrowed in on my target.

  Belly down on the ground, Christine looked up from beneath a crumpled cranberry sweater covered with broken branches and patches of dirt. A pang of guilt touched me as I lobbed the ball of paint. It didn’t last long.

  “Got you!” I exclaimed. The bag popped and gold paint coated Christine’s back. Her cranberry sweater resembled corroded rust, and small dots of yellow speckled her tangled auburn hair.

  I jumped down, half-expecting to be ambushed. Nothing happened. I tilted my head, questioning the silence. “Christine?” I asked, poking her from behind.

  Christine slowly twisted around, her blue eyes wide in terror.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” I creaked, scanning the forest.

  Christine’s jaw trembled. Pushing herself up, she pointed back into the woods.

  Nothing seemed odd or out of place. I took a quick inventory of our surroundings – the grayish brown bark of the old cedar trees, spindly trunks of the maples, bright berries, and a white trunk. My gaze immediately jumped back to the white. Birch trees didn’t grow in our forest.

  I looked up slowly, following the white trunk with my eyes until recognition unfurled. “The ivory tower,” I breathed.

  “We have to go,” Christine whispered behind me.

  Now it was my turn to freeze. I barely felt the insistent tugging on the cuff of my shirt.

  I had never been this close to the edge of camp before. We had run the small stretch of woods in the back of the camp near the orphanage for years, but never ventured to the outer boundaries. I focused on the barbed wire camouflaged into the stacked brambles and woody debris. Rust and moss grew around the sharp teeth of the corroded metal. And beyond it, what I’d taken for a white trunk revealed itself to be the brick base of a tower.

  The skillful, tidy stacks of bricks had worn over the years. White paint flecked off the sides. I saw exposed gaps in the dilapidated mortar. At the top, the tower widened. A row of shattered windows looked out behind, toward the camp. Squinting, I glimpsed writing on the dangling threshold marker. Faded charcoal letters described the tower with one word.

  “Restricted,” I whispered, my breath clouding the air. Christine’s cold fingers pulled against my sweater as I moved closer.

  “Simone, this isn’t safe,” she urged, pulling more insistently. “We shouldn’t be this close to the edge.” Christine’s words fell on deaf ears. I was captivated.

  She tugged again, drawing me away from the discovery. Twisting around, I shot her an annoyed look and brushed the bangs out of my eyes. “What?” I demanded.

  “I want to go,” she whined, tears brimming at the edge of her eyes.

  I looked at my terrified friend, and back to the tower, searing the image into my mind. A new sensation gripped me, a seductive blend of fear and curiosity. In sixteen years here at camp, I had never felt that rush. I didn’t want it to end.

  “Simone,” she insisted.

  I relented with a sigh, feeling the lure of the tower break.

  * * *

  No matter how much I tried to recall the seductive blend of emotions that seized me when I stared at the tower, it escaped me. The memories were pale imitations of that first surge of excitement, reminding me more of what I was missing than what I had experienced. That longing haunted me, and I had no one to talk to about it.

  Christine had disappeared shortly after we made it back to camp. The last thing I remembered was terror in her eyes, like a clawing cat, and the silent scream that stilled her voice. We both knew alarming the camp would only bring pressure down upon us. No one wanted extra notice from the guards. Biting my tongue the past few days waiting for Christine to show up was torture enough.

  The days of her absence seemed to stretch into infinity. Images of the tower haunted every moment. When I closed my eyes in bed, visions of a forgotten tower played in my mind. Instead of seeing the rotten wooden planks around my room, I saw rows of dilapidated bricks. The creaks in the floorboards as I walked around the orphanage sounded eerily similar to the swinging of the threshold marker. Even as I waited in line for my daily rations, the wind blew against the frayed remains of our camp’s striped flag, reminding me of the red maple leaves that pressed up against the base of the tower, a blend of red and white. The line of men corralling around the general sto
re waiting for the Colonel’s arrival mimicked the straight lines and rigid construction of the tower. The monotony of the camp, its desolation, reminded me of the bricks. I couldn’t escape it. Everything took my mind back, especially thoughts of Christine.

  My gaze drifted back to the empty hole in line where she should have been. I didn’t understand what had happened. Being afraid was one thing, but so frightened that she couldn’t show up for rations or school was unheard of. A knot formed in my stomach. Something told me that whatever was keeping Christine away had to do with more than just the tower. No one missed rations, especially not anyone from a prestigious family. The risk of losing status and placement always outweighed personal matters.

  I shivered, not just from the brisk breeze. Panic punched me, leaving a cold lump in my chest. I clutched my arms, trying to warm the freeze spreading through me. The strange feeling surprised me. I hadn’t felt that pain in years, not since I lost my mom.

  I clenched my jaw and pressed my nails into the rough fabric along my arms, anything to distract me from those thoughts. Now was not the time to replay history. I had stopped feeling over my mom a long time ago and I wasn’t going to start again now. Christine wouldn’t leave me like my mom had.

  “Christine!” I yelled, waving my hands over my head to grab her attention as she rounded the corner into view. I stepped towards her but stopped when I saw her face.

  Walking closely behind her parents, her downcast head explained why I hadn’t seen her in days. Hidden beneath a blank expression, dark shadows outlined her eyes, and the remnants of a bruise colored her left cheek. Christine took her place stoically in line, ignoring my outburst.

  “Christine,” I yelled again, scowling at her avoidance. This wasn’t like her. Something was wrong. Proving my point, the looks of scorn and disappointment from Christine’s parents told me exactly what they thought of me. I sighed, feeling a pang of responsibility for my friend’s pain.