The Ivory Tower

by Kirstin Pulioff

  Was it really my fault though? I hadn’t found the tower after all, that was Christine. No matter how I tried to justify it though, the tightening knot in my gut told me I couldn’t escape the guilt. Deserved or not, it was there.

  Retracing my steps, I took my normal place at the end of the line, behind the farmers, factory workers, and Mrs. Booker. The older woman who cared for the orphanage frowned as I passed by her. Her eyes narrowed, and I could tell she was trying to determine just how much trouble I’d caused this time. Memories of transgressions flickered through my mind, and a smile grew on my lips. If Mrs. Booker knew even half of my escapades, her expression would have been much worse. It had a price, but being an orphan left me a certain amount of freedom, too.

  The line quieted as the first set of bells rang.

  Cold wind and morning mist blew against us, sending a shiver down my spine. Crossing my arms to block the chill, I felt goosebumps grow through the scratchy fabric of my shirt. The worn burlap did little to block the force of the wind, and the only thick spots remaining were the cuffs where they’d sewn my number, 277. That high number kept me apart from the others in more ways than I wanted to admit.

  I ushered some of the younger kids in front of me, watching their smiles grow as they bent down to play. Even a number or two higher meant better odds of receiving something. Rations weren’t guaranteed for us, at the end of the line. When it came down to it, we couldn’t count on much, and when we did, that hope inevitably got trampled. It was easier not to hope than to have it taken away. We all learned that lesson the hard way.

  If I could keep one of them from learning that lesson an extra day it was worth the loss of food. I was used to loss. The dry dust shuffled as the smaller kids drew on the ground, oblivious to the tension around them. My smile grew as I recognized the familiar lines and circles in the dust. It seemed growing up together gave us a common thread or appreciation for certain symbols. I didn’t know of any besides us orphans that obsessed over spirals and webs. It was like we tried make connections where there were none. It seemed so sad when I thought about it, so I looked away.

  My head popped up at the sound of the guards marching. Approaching from behind the factory, their soft tapping grew into a rhythmic boom. The guards walked in unison, their impeccably pressed uniforms as harsh as their smiles. Colorful patches and insignias lined the shoulders of the uniforms, and black leather straps secured their guns and ammunition. The air tightened as the line of men passed. People averted their eyes. When I looked back down, the scribbles had disappeared under boot prints, and disappointment replaced the joy on the children’s faces.

  “They didn’t see your drawings,” I said, dropping down to wipe the tears from a cheek. I traced her fingers through the gritty dirt, encouraging their art, and was rewarded with a ragged smile. Mrs. Booker shook her head in disapproval.

  With the kids back to drawing, I squinted towards the guards, following the trail of dust to the main gates. Even the line of dust seemed to be displaced by precision. The guards marched to the gates and stood on either side of the doorway, creating a tunnel of armed men. A round red light crowned the doorway, dormant until the doors opened. Faded letters blended into the thick steel-studded doors, their earlier designation forgotten. With only a few surviving camps around the country, it didn’t matter who took care of us, just that we were taken care of. We had become dependent on them.

  I watched the red light flash as the door opened. The hinges creaked, threatening to buckle.

  Dust surrounded the incoming trucks. Covered in studded armor, camouflaged paint, and metal spikes, they were faint shadows of their original design. The trucks maneuvered slowly, filling the silence with the thunder of exhaust. An armored man watched through a small opening in the top, a gun slung over his shoulder. Large tan goggles and a domed hat monopolized his face.

  The caravan rounded its way through the gates and into the circular path of the marketplace, covering the line of people with a layer of grime that clung under the fall mist.

  The Colonel stepped out, as foreboding as ever. The camp quietly averted their eyes, listening to the synchronization of his boots and the second bell. Years of the same routine made the process seamless.

  We approached, received our rations, and waited for the Colonel’s inspection. Black-gloved fingers strangled a pen as he marked off our numbers, mutely searching our clothing for confirmation. Even after years, no signs of recognition registered on his face, only distaste. The palatable disgust he held for us became more obvious the older I got.

  I kept my eyes lowered as I approached for my rations. A small bag hit my shoulder. I knew better than to reach before it was offered. I had only made that mistake once. Mumbling thanks, I walked away, eager to open the package. My knuckles turned white from clenching it.

  The long, sleepless nights wore on me, aggravating the emptiness in my stomach. That pain grew every step I took away from the guards, making my way back across the main street. I knew better, but the anticipation stirred within, and my mouth watered before I made it to my normal spot. I climbed on top of a wooden post fence, hooking my legs around the lower part for balance.

  Rations changed daily, and since I was a high number, I never knew what would be inside my bag. Some days there was enough to save some for another day, others yielded a simple roll, and sometimes they ran out before me. I closed my eyes to wish, then briefly peeked inside. Lucky, this time. I grinned, welcoming the sight of the jerky strip, roll, and handful of dried berries.

  Popping a few berries in my mouth, I watched the caravan retreat under the flashing red light. The berries caught me by surprise as they melted, a surprising blend of sweet and tanginess settled on my tongue. They weren’t like the tart salmonberries or sweet blackberries I picked in the forest.

  It summoned a memory of the bedtime stories my mother had told me. I could remember the gentle tug as my mom tucked my hair behind my ears. Her soft voice filled my mind with visions of the berries that grew on her hometown farm. Berries, she said, that melted in your mouth and left a lingering blend of the sweetest flowers and only a hint of sour. Similar stories about life before the camp had lulled me to sleep for years. That was a long time ago, before the natural disasters, and before the worst disaster, my mother’s death.

  My reverie broke as Christine came into view.

  I put the berries back. The memories had to stop. I couldn’t think of the past when my now was falling apart.

  “Hey you,” I called out, catching Christine off guard. “Where are you going? The third bell hasn’t rung yet.”

  Christine slowed but wouldn’t meet my eyes. She looked so frail today, so small hidden inside her baggy sweater. It was the same cranberry sweater she had worn in the woods, but the fabric had stretched beyond repair with multiple washes. Even after tortured cleaning, small specks of yellow stained the thick yarn.

  “Let me share my rations with you,” I offered, holding out a handful of berries. The thought that I could save a friendship and quiet a painful memory at the same time seemed a perfect solution.

  Christine looked at the offering and smiled, recognizing the apology. “Thanks,” she said, jumping onto the post next to me. “Mmmm, these are good.”

  I munched on the jerky, savoring the saltiness. “Your sweater looks nice,” I said, trying to diffuse the awkwardness.

  Christine raised her eyebrows. “It should look good. I’ve spent the last three days scrubbing it, trying to get the paint out.”

  “I thought it looked pretty clean,” I agreed and smiled. Christine’s eyes strayed back to the ground. My smile disappeared at the stalled conversation. “What happened?” I finally asked.

  “I got in trouble,” she mumbled softly.

  “I can see that,” I said, brushing a strand of her auburn hair away from her eyes. A purple and green welt streaked across her cheekbone. “I didn’t think they ever got mad like that. What happened?”

  Christine twisted her fi
ngers, refusing to meet my eyes. “They haven’t before. It was scary. When I told them about the tower, you should’ve seen my mom’s eyes. I’ve never seen them that mad before.”

  “And they did this to you, all because of the tower?” I asked incredulously.

  “They said it was a warning,” she brushed her hair forward, covering the bruise. “That there were worse things that could happen from the tower.”

  “I don’t understand. They consider this a warning for what?” I asked, appalled. “What’ll they do next time? And what exactly did you tell them?”

  “I don’t know. They just warned me to stay away from the tower… and from you,” she added reluctantly. “They said I needed to start following the rules, for my own good. And don’t be mad, I didn’t tell them much, just the obvious. I had to explain the paint, and why we were in the woods instead of class,” she defended herself. “I’m not like you. I can’t do things and not have to answer questions about it. They hold me accountable, for everything, and now…” her voice trailed off.

  “And now what?” I prompted, trying to keep my anger from rising. Sometimes she saw my circumstances as easier than hers.

  She met my eyes and scoffed. “And now with the factory coming up, they expect more of me.”

  I ate another bite in silence before pressing the issue again. “Did they say anything though?”

  “They said plenty. Not much that I want to repeat,” Christine gave a small smile. “They have an image to maintain. This,” she said pointing to her cheek, “was a mistake. The real wounds don’t show.”

  I scrunched my forehead and reached for her hand. I knew more about that than she thought.

  “You should have seen them, Simone. They were livid. More than I’ve ever seen them before. When I mentioned the tower, they flipped,” she said.

  I relaxed, feeling the distance between us shrink. “I can imagine.”

  “What do you think they told me first?” she asked with a wink.

  “Oh boy, probably something blaming it on me,” I answered with a slight laugh to hide the pain of that truth.

  “You’re right. At first they didn’t say much, just that I couldn’t see you anymore,” she chuckled.

  “Ah, there’s nothing new there. They’ve told you that from the beginning. It wouldn’t do for a 28 to be seen with a 277.” I hid the sting with a joking tone. “One of these days they’ll realize I’m more than just a high number.”

  “It’s not about our numbers,” Christine said, hiding the cuff of her sleeve under her palm. “It has nothing to do with that. It’s about the rules. They’re tired of seeing me break them.”

  “We’ve been breaking them our whole lives. I don’t know what’s different now.”

  “We’re getting older, Simone. It’s no longer just skipping out of last class or taking someone else’s rations. We’re almost old enough for the factory, and that means we need to follow the rules. They’re here for a reason.”

  “What sort of reason? To numb our lives into a routine of nothing?”

  “Shhh, lower your voice,” Christine said, pushing herself off the fence. “You can’t talk like that. The rules are here to protect us. It might be a life of routine and regulation, but it’s still a life. We’re the lucky ones, you should remember that. You know our history just as well as I do. Your mom may have fed you bedtime stories of adventure, but mine filled me with the truth. How everything collapsed, the crops failed, the violence, the anarchy. Once the disasters began, life unraveled. People lost more than just their homes and food. They lost their humanity. Camp life may not be the best, but we’re still alive, and those guards are protecting us from the evil and contamination beyond the walls.”

  I didn’t have anything to add. Our history had never been disputed. The horrors taught in class were only slightly minimized in family retellings. From everything I knew, we were lucky, as ridiculous as that sounded. We watched the people wait for the third bell in silence.

  “None of that really matters anyway. In a couple weeks we’ll be too busy with the factory to worry about boredom and rules.”

  “Has your mom told you anything about the factory yet?”

  Christine shook her head and frowned. “No, it’s like she pretends that part of the day doesn’t exist. She never mentions it, and I don’t bring it up. I’m sure it’s just tedious. I mean, how much is there to talk about with sewing? A stitch here, a stitch there. I’m sure they’ve all run out of things to talk about anymore.”

  “Well, we’ll liven up that group when we start. But before we do that,” I said, with the side of my mouth turning up mischievously, “what do you say we skip out and take advantage of the sunshine? Do you think we can find it again, the tower?”

  “Let it go, Simone.” Christine’s voice hardened. “We can’t go back there. I’m not going back there,” she said more definitively.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” My stomach knotted.

  Leaning forward, she looked around before dropping her voice to a whisper. “OK. My mom told me a little more once she calmed down. All she would say was that the tower brought death and disaster for all who went there. It’s bad stuff, Simone. Everyone that’s gone near it has come back contaminated, scarred, or dead.”

  We locked eyes, and a new shiver ran through me.

  “Even your mother,” Christine’s voice quivered. “About ten years ago, there was a shortage of rations, and work was getting tough. A group went out, searching for extra food, animals to hunt—anything to lessen the burden in camp. Instead, they found the tower. There were a lucky few that the guards found in time, but even they didn’t escape unscathed. Something horrible happened to all of them. Some died, some were scarred, but everyone came back a different person.”

  “What the… why haven’t I heard about this?”

  Christine looked at her. “You were only six. It’s not the sort of thing someone would tell you. And even now, no one wants to talk about it. A lot don’t even remember it, or just pretend it didn’t happen.”

  “How do you even know that it’s true, then?”

  Christine raised her eyebrows and gave me a knowing look. “Have you ever looked closely at Mr. Lindle, or Jack Wentmire? Look at their hands next time we line up. They are all marked, melted from contaminates. They were on that expedition, and even though they came back, they came back changed. Something out there is bad, something at that tower or nearby it. Everyone that survived refuses to leave the center of camp. It just goes to show what we have been told. The world out there is still bad, and the camp is here to protect us from it.”

  I packed the rest of my rations into the steel container at my hip. “I know you’re right. You always are. It’s just that when I saw the tower, something inside me changed. When I saw it, I don’t know,” I sighed. “It just made me feel.”

  “Made you feel what?”

  I gave her a sad smile and shrugged. “It just made me feel.”

  Both our heads jerked up at the sound of the third bell.

  I hazarded a wink. “What should we do today then?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m going to class today,” Christine said regretfully, jumping off the post. “Ask me again tomorrow.”

  I watched her go, feeling the emptiness resonate as the third bell went silent, and then I followed.

  The rest of the day settled into a blur. Sitting in the back of the class, I watched Christine’s hand jump with every answer, as if excelling today would forgive yesterday’s transgressions. If I had learned anything here, it was that people compensated in different ways. Some were healthier than others. I certainly wasn’t one to judge.

  * * *

  That night proved no better than the last few. I woke in a puddle of my own sweat and clutched at my heart, prepared to rip it out if it poured out any more memories. The dark room calmed the bite of the nightmare. It was strange, the solace I found in darkness. On these blackest of nights, alone in my room, I had shed more tears and come
to terms with my demons. Most of them anyway, a few still lingered… like tonight.

  I swatted at the ground next to the bed, feeling for the unevenly melted candle near the edge of my mattress. The cool wax relaxed me. I sat up and found the hidden matchbook I kept tucked inside my pillowcase, carefully lighting the candle and placing it flat on the ground next to my bed.

  I curved my palm around the flame, careful to block the light, and looked around to make sure no one else was awake. Small crevices between the boards shared everything. Privacy was an illusion. Maybe that’s why these midnight hours consoled me. At any other time, if they ignored my cries it would be avoidance not ignorance. Assured of the darkness, I moved my palm and settled my gaze on the fire.

  I watched the flame dance upon its short wick for what seemed liked hours until small beads of hot wax bubbled along the edge. I licked my thumb and finger, extinguishing the flame with a sizzle. The quick burst of pain eased my torment.

  I leaned back against the bed, folding the pillow in half, and stared at the wisps of smoke spiraling up from the wick. Darkness didn’t hide everything. Traces remained, like the smoke of the candle and memories of my past.

  Plagued by my thoughts, I didn’t sleep. Visions of my mom, Christine’s bruised face, and the tower filtered in uninvited, monopolizing my mind. Morning did not come fast enough. One thing was certain, after another sleepless night, I had to set things right. I could deal with nightmares; I had done that for years, but the persistent pull of the tower demanded an answer. One way or another, I had to see it again.

  I stared at the window, watching the slow transition of the stars fading to gray before the morning sun rose. As soon as light breached the windowsill, I tiptoed out the door, carefully avoiding the squeaky floorboards outside the other rooms.

  I wrapped my arms inside the sleeves of my shirt and walked toward the center of camp. The walk from the orphanage usually took ten minutes. Located near the gates, the center of camp housed our store, meeting hall, and general storage buildings. The orphanage, farms and factory were equidistant, fanning out in different directions. This camp was relatively small from what we were told about the others, but the ten thousand-acre compound seemed big enough to fool enough of us into complacency. With rations, work, and community, some people felt complete. Or at least resigned to acceptance. Not me. Claustrophobia hit me every time I walked to center camp. The expanse of the tall grey walls crushed me.