The Ivory Tower

The Ivory Tower

Kirstin Pulioff

The Ivory Tower

Copyright © 2013 Kirstin Pulioff

Cover Copyright © 2013 CoverD

Edited by Magpie Editing

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Publisher’s
Note:
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, businesses, and
incidents are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblances to actual places,
people, or events is purely coincidental.

First Edition- 2013

www.kirstinpulioff.com

THE IVORY TOWER

She stopped counting. Silence
magnified the shuffling of leaves and the harsh caw of the crows. Simone opened
her eyes, welcoming the soft strands of sunlight that fell on her through the partially
cleared canopy. Autumn’s bitter winds might wreak havoc on their camp, but in
the forest, the scattered leaves painted the floor into a mosaic of colors.

“Ready or not, here I
come,” Simone’s voice boomed. She assessed the empty forest around her. Nothing
but the overgrown underbrush, salmonberries, and hemlocks. Just shades of greens,
splashed with the occasional bright red dots. She looked down at her olive
green leggings, worn thin around the knees, and the scratchy burlap tunic, and
smiled. She blended into the forest perfectly. With a quick crack of her
fingers and a tug on her ponytail, she began.

“You’d better have a
good hiding spot this time,” she called. She hopped on one foot to pull a rock
from the bottom of her shoe as the cold air blew through her flimsy clothes.

The discarded leaves
from the maple trees crunched under her feet. Winters were severe in their
area, and fast approaching. No sooner than the leaves changed colors and fell,
the snow trespassed, restricting their activities to the center of camp.

As it was, her scrappy leather
boots needed repair. The rocks and strewn branches prodded and jabbed her feet as
she climbed through the woody debris. Snow would make these adventures
miserable, even more intolerable than the cleaning and mending that winter
revolved around.

Even as the thundering
clouds in the sky threatened to block the sun, and the biting cold weather
persisted, they refused to give up on these afternoon adventures. Starting this
winter, they would be considered old enough for factory duties, and their
afternoons of skipping school would be filled with work. For now, they pressed
their luck, running around the forest, playing their revised, high-stakes
version of a childhood game.

“You can’t hide
forever,” she taunted, her smile reaching through her words. She slid gracefully
through the game trails. The passages worn by the forest animals wove neatly between
the brambles, dormant hives, and traps. As the cold water from the river seeped
through her soles, she gasped. A flash of something deep red caught her eye.

Her fingers deftly unclasped
the steel container tied to her belt. Carefully pulling out a small bag, she
smiled and rolled the coagulated paint in its plastic pouch. She tossed it
between hands, careful not to squeeze and break the package.

Training her ears to
the forest, she heard the tromping of bushes, the skittering of animals, and
the loud thump of her fall. Simone smiled. Christine had been her friend for
years, and despite her skill in hiding, she lost all delicacy of her actions at
the first sign of danger.

Slow and deliberate,
her steps announced her location. The air filled with the crunching of leaves,
shuffling of rocks, and cawing of the crows. Over the rocks, and around the
trunks, her mind hummed with triumph, her heart beating a tempo for the song. The
shades of green blurred around her as she narrowed in on her 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 Simone as
she let the ball of paint go.

“Got you!” she
exclaimed. The bag popped, paint coating Christine’s back. The cranberry
sweater now looked like corroded rust, and small dots of yellow speckled the
girl’s tangled auburn hair.

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

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

“What is it? What’s
wrong?” Simone creaked.

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

Nothing seemed odd. She
took a quick inventory of her surroundings- the grayish brown bark of the old
cedar trees, spindly trunks of the maples, bright berries, and a white trunk. Her
eyes immediately jumped back to the white. They didn’t have birch trees in
their forest.

She looked up slowly,
following the white trunk until the details grew, and the recognition unfurled.
“The ivory tower,” she breathed.

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

Now it was her turn to
freeze. She barely felt the insistent tugging on her shirt.

She had never been this
close to the edge before. They had run this small stretch of woods in the back
of the camp for years, but never ventured to the outer boundaries. She 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
she’d taken for a white trunk revealed itself as the brick base of a tower.

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

“Restricted,” she
whispered, her breath clouding the air. Christine’s cold fingers pulled her
hand from behind.

“This isn’t safe. We
shouldn’t be this close to the edge.” Christine’s words fell on deaf ears.

She tugged again,
drawing Simone away from their discovery. Twisting around, she brushed her
bangs out of her eyes, searing the image into her mind.

A new sensation gripped
her, a curious blend between fear and curiosity. Simone smiled, liking the way
it felt.

***

The next few days seemed
to stretch into infinity. Every time Simone closed her eyes, visions of the
tower wandered in. As the wind blew against the frayed remains of their striped
flag, it reminded her of the red maple leaves that pressed up against the base
of the tower, a blend of red and white. The line of men waiting for the day’s
rations mimicked the straight lines and rigid construction of the tower. The
monotony of the camp, its desolation, reminded her of the bricks. Everything
took her mind back, especially when she saw Christine.

Walking closely behind
her parents, her downcast head showed why Simone 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. She watched her friend stand stoically in
line, wearing the same cranberry sweater, small specks of yellow paint stained
into the thick yarn.

“Christine,” she
yelled, waving her arms overhead to get her attention. Pointed looks of scorn
and disappointment from Christine’s parents told her exactly what they thought
of her. Simone sighed, feeling a pang of responsibility for her friend’s pain.

Retracing her steps,
she took her normal place in line, behind Mrs. Booker and the farm boys. As she
listened to the soft drawls of the farmer’s voices, regret pulled her eyes back
to her friend. Memories of small transgressions flickered through her mind, and
a smile grew on her lips. It had a price, but being an orphan left her a
certain amount of freedom, too.

The line quieted as the
first set of bells rang. Every day for the last twenty years, they lined up in
the same order, for the same reason, at the same time. Ringing six times a day-
three morning bells signified the daily ration routine, one for the start of farm
and factory duties, another for the end, and the final for curfew.

The combination of cold
wind and morning mist blew against them, sending a shiver down Simone’s spine. Crossing
her arms to block the chill, she felt goosebumps grow through the scratchy
fabric of her 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 her number,
277. The high number resigned her and the other orphans to the end of the line
and the scraps.

She ushered some of the
younger kids in front of her, watching their smiles grow as they bent down to
play. The dry dust shuffled as the smaller kids drew on the ground, oblivious
to the tension around them. Her own smile grew as she saw the familiar lines
and circles they drew.

Her 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 she 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,” Simone said, dropping down to wipe the tears from a cheek. She
traced her fingers through the gritty dirt. Mrs. Booker shook her head in
disapproval.

With the kids back to
drawing, Simone squinted toward the guards, following the trail of dust to the
main gates. Even the line of dust seemed to be displaced with 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, the
designation forgotten. With only a few surviving camps around the country, it
didn’t matter who was taking care of them, just that they were taken care of.

Simone 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 between his boots and the second bell. Black gloved fingers
strangled a pen as he marked off numbers, mutely searching their clothing for confirmation.

Simone kept her eyes
low as a small bag hit her shoulder. Mumbling thanks, she walked away, eager to
open the package. Her knuckles turned white from clenching it. She climbed on
top of a wooden post fence, hooking her legs around the lower part for balance.

Rations changed daily,
and being a high number, she never knew what would be inside her bag. Some days
there was enough to save, others meant a simple roll, and sometimes, they ran
out before her. She closed her eyes to wish, then briefly peeked inside. Lucky,
this time; she grinned, welcoming the sight of the jerky strip, roll, and
handful of dried berries.

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

It summoned a memory of
the bedtime stories her mother had told her. She could remember the gentle tug
as her mother would tuck her hair behind her ears. Her soft voice filled
Simone’s 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 her to sleep for years. That was a long time ago, before the natural disasters,
and before the worst disaster, her mother’s death.

Her reverie broke as Christine
came into view.

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

Simone’s smile
disappeared when Christine wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Let me share my rations
with you,” she said, holding out a handful of berries.

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

Simone munched on the
last of her berries, savoring the lingering sweetness. “Your sweater looks nice,”
she offered.

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.” Her friend’s eyes stayed on the ground.

Simone’s smile
disappeared at their stalled conversation. “What happened?”

Christine’s voice was
barely a mumble. “I got in trouble.”

“I can see that,” she
said brushing a strand of Christine’s 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?”

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

“And they did this to
you?”

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

“I don’t understand.
They consider this a warning for what?” Simone asked, appalled. “What exactly
did you tell them?”