Dreamscape: Saving Alex

by Kirstin Pulioff

  “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 m
ortar. 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.

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