There was only one place I had ever felt free, in the forest behind the orphanage. And now, the thought of the forest lightened my heart. I knew one way or another, I would be beneath its cover today, and hopefully one of my nightmares could be put to rest.
The quiet of the morning cleared my mind, allowing me to focus. My teeth chattered and breath clouded my view, forcing me to pull the collar of my shirt up over my chin. I hated to do it, knowing the burlap left red rash marks where it touched me, but I hated the cold more. Everything pointed to the inevitable—winter would be starting soon. This realization fueled the decision I had already made on the short walk. Now the question remained: How to convince my friend?
With my mind focused on strategy, I made it to the center of camp in no time. The rustling of the flag announced my arrival, grabbing my attention.
Flickering in the wind, a frayed flag marked the center of camp. The separation between colored lines blended together as the threads waved independently, a last reminder of the time before. Come to think of it though, everything in camp seemed a reminder of the past. Rusted farm equipment lined the wall along the side of the meeting hall. On the other side, monopolizing the storefront, wooden boxes were stacked high, covering the dusty windows.
The wind burst through, smacking the flag forcefully. I looked up, and then beyond the faded stripes to the barbs and trained gunmen guarding the main gates. Goosebumps rose along my arm and on the back of my neck as the eyes of one of the guards bore down on me. His appraising gaze sent a wave of apprehension through me. Maybe this early morning walk wasn’t such a good idea.
He turned his attention back to paperwork as soon as I sped back across the street. I found my spot, an indiscriminate point along the dusty road, and slumped to the ground, waiting for the line to fill in.
I drug my fingers through my hair, wincing at the tangles, and pulled the mess back into a ponytail. Soft wisps escaped their intended confinement and framed my face. I tugged on the longer pieces and tucked them behind an ear, careful to keep my eyes down. My fingers found a way to the ground, and I traced designs in the dust just as the kids had the day before. Making a web, but what did I hope to catch? Another question I tried to suppress as my heart sped up.
Haunting my dreams, and now my waking moments, it seemed as if more things called to me now than they ever had in the past sixteen years. What did the tower, my mom, and Christine’s words have in common? Was there even a common thread, beyond making me crazy?
Christine’s warnings floated through my mind. My head pounded and vision blurred as exhaustion finally hit. I cradled my head in my hands and closed my eyes. Maybe the dreams wouldn’t haunt me in the daytime.
Before long, people filtered in. The lower numbers lined up first. Christine and her family showed up promptly today, happily engaged with the others around them. Some of the kids from the orphanage arrived, quickly adding their designs to my own, and finally, the family I had been waiting for.
The Wentmires approached from down the street, straight in from the farming communes. The six of them walked together, Jack and Trisha in the lead, with their four sons following. I smiled, despite the trepidation that made my insides crawl. If what Christine said was true, they held the answers to my questions.
They joined the line and melted into the crowd. I peeked around, but Jack Wentmire’s wide-brimmed hat concealed his face, and his hands hid within his wife’s grip. Their bodies blurred under my tired eyes. I wouldn’t see anything from here.
I swore under my breath, hearing Christine’s words taunt me in my mind. There was only one way to see if she was right. I bit on the inside of my upper lip and rolled my palms together. The first step came hardest, and I felt the burning focus of Mrs. Booker’s eyes on my back.
“Now kids, that’s another example of what not to do,” her gravelly voice said. I cringed at the older woman’s words, but couldn’t deny it. I didn’t want them to end up like me either. No one would wish that pain on anyone.
I walked further, wishing I didn’t know the shocked gasps and startled whispers were about me. No one broke the daily routine, and yet here I was, walking along the line, checking out hands. It seemed absurd when I really thought about it, but I had committed myself now. If there were repercussions for my disturbance, it had to be worth it.
Focusing on the shoes in line, I noticed when I transitioned from the factory women to the farmers and their families. I looked up casually and saw Christine staring at me in shock from behind a wooden post. I rubbed the back of one hand to explain, but she shook her head and then lowered it as her parents shot her a glare.
I saw Mr. Decker, obvious from the abundance of freckles, but no scars appeared. Next in line, I saw Mr. Steen, but his hands were clear as well. A sickening feeling climbed from my stomach to my chest. What was I doing? Was I really risking rations or worse over a story Christine’s mom had told her? The next hands were clear and so were the next after those.
It wasn’t just a story though. Through my strained eyes, I finally saw Mr. Wentmire’s right hand. Tortured skin peeked out from beneath his marked cuff. Splotches in a variety of shades twisted together, as if the skin itself rejected the idea of healing.
My heart raced. If Christine was right about this, what else was true? What did that mean about my mom? Ideas jumbled together, melting into fog in my mind.
The line tightened under the ringing bells, and I ran back into place before the daily routine began. Mrs. Booker raised her brows, but I didn’t respond. I kept my face calm despite the racing of my heart and mind.
Dragging my feet, I stumbled forward until my eyes settled on polished black boots and pressed trousers. Unable to stop the progression, my eyes continued up to the Colonel’s face. My breath caught in my chest as our eyes connected. Under the structured cap, a hint of madness gleamed from his dark eyes. A shiver ran down my spine as his gaze lowered from my face to my sleeve. With a curt nod, his gloved hands struck off my number from the list.
I bit my lower lip as the guard waved me forward, empty-handed. My stomach protested the rejection. Maybe my actions were reckless. But my stomach turned at more than the hunger, as the questions from the morning continued to run through my mind.
Grumbles started behind me. When I looked, I saw Mrs. Booker usher the other hungry kids out of the street and into their classroom. The streets quieted, but not the cries of their hunger. I sighed. Did everyone really think keeping things out of sight would keep them out of mind?
Over at our normal meeting spot, Christine sat atop the wooden fence post peeking inside her rations.
I managed a slight smile as I sat next to her. “So, did you get any extra treats in your pack today?” I asked, peeking into her bag.
Christine’s shoulders relaxed and she smiled. “Do you ever take anything seriously?” She pulled out an extra sugar cube.
“Not if I can help it,” I admitted, popping the sugar cube into my mouth.
“I can’t believe you!” she exclaimed. “You’re absolutely crazy sometimes.”
I smiled at the admiration in her voice, and let the sugar melt along my tongue.
“Nothing today?” she asked, looking at my empty hands.
“It’s the nature of the number,” I said, grabbing another cube from her bag. “You get the good food, and I get the trouble.”
“Simone?” she asked, leaning over to look at me. “You’re pale. Are you feeling well?”
I managed a small smile and nodded, trying to find words that didn’t convey my feelings. “Yes, of course I’m fine,” I said, and then turned the conversation away from me. “It’s almost gone, you know, your bruise. Maybe we should go back.” I held my breath, waiting for her answer. So much now depended on how I could make her change her mind.
Christine’s eyes widened and she pulled a section of hair over her cheek. “That’s not funny. I thought we talked about that yesterday.”
“We did. I was just joking,” I lied, rummag
ing back through her bag. “It’s one of our last days, though. We won’t get this chance for freedom once we join the factory. Even I can’t get us out of there. We’re not really supposed to have it now, so we should do something. Unless you want to go back to school today…” I popped a final cube in my mouth and waited. I could see her weighing the choices in her mind. Responsibility and rules versus friendship. It seemed a simple choice to me, but something told me it was harder for her.
As the lingering tone of the third bell fell silent, I cast a sideways glance toward her. “You can feel the chill and you know winter is coming. It would be irresponsible if we didn’t take advantage of what we have left before the factory work begins. Are you up for another game?” The manipulation was obvious, but so was the desire in my face. I couldn’t hide it.
Christine looked around, watching as the final farmer grabbed a shovel and plow. A long line of brown sweaters formed outside the factory as the women went to work. “OK, one last time,” she relented. “But this time, I’m going to find you.”
I tried to hide the excitement surging inside as I jumped down from the fence and tightened my tangled ponytail. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
* * *
Even though Christine agreed to play, she moved with hesitation, lingering at the edge of the forest. At her insistence, we started the game closer to camp, but as soon as we entered the forest, her eyes refused to settle. The shadows stilled her feet. She didn’t know that those same shadows lit my soul. I didn’t think I could ever explain to her that with the first step inside the treeline, the seductive pull of the tower called to me.
“Christine, 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. “You promised,” I reminded her.
Something about that call to responsibility startled her, and she gave me a hurt look. But she stepped forward, and that was what I was waiting for. I didn’t care; I had passed the point of looking after her. Today was about me.
My heart raced in anticipation. I assumed this was what others felt like on their birthdays. This was my gift, sixteen years in waiting.
“You better start counting,” I said, watching Christine fumble with the metal clasp to the pouch on her belt. As soon as she rolled the bag of blue paint in her palm, a mischievous smile rose on her face.
“You’d better start hiding. It took me 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. Maybe this forest didn’t just heal me after all.
“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 its touch. I didn’t dare glance back or slow down, knowing that the moment Christine stopped counting, my time would begin to slip away. My carefully-placed feet were silent 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 I didn’t for a moment think she didn’t know where I was going. I’m not that great a manipulator.
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 over the fear of contamination and her parents’ beating, the rest of me felt compelled to see it again. That part won.
The air quieted. I heard only the crunching of leaves and branches, and the occasional fluttering of wings as the forest deepened around me. I passed the rock quarry, the fallen hemlock, the high wall of brambles, and finally, the small river. The tower pulled me. I made quick time through the forest, running until my chest heaved with exertion. The miles had never disappeared so quickly. I splashed through the cold water, skipping along faster and faster, in rhythm with my heart. I hardly felt the rocks biting my feet with each 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. The corroded barbs teased me, looking harmless. I grasped the cool metal. A shiver of certainty shook me.
The wind rustled through the branches. Bright red leaves drifted down, settling around me and at the base of the tower. The visions that had haunted my dreams for the past week transformed into reality. That same feeling of fear and curiosity burned through me; my chest ached. I itched to touch the bricks. But it was more than that. I needed to run my fingers over those worn bricks and press my head against the soft moss along their edge. I ignored the whispered warnings at the back of my mind. I couldn’t lose this.
As I waited, 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 of the wire tore into my right shin.
I trampled the brambles and fallen leaves and slid underneath the hanging sign into darkness. Muffled calls rang out behind me. I imagined Christine outside, remembered her horror-stricken face the day we’d first seen the tower. A pang of regret sunk my heart at my betrayal. Had I pushed it too far this time? But I didn’t have time to worry about that, or maybe the thoughts simply hurt too much.
I compartmentalized those worries and focused on the world around me. The tower enfolded me in its mystery. The containment of the walls quieted the air. The silence was deafening. Through the dim light, signs written in the same charcoal ink as that on the outer threshold marker lined the walls. Warnings in strange symbols I had never seen before. The world surrounded by stars, letters forming acronyms, and words unfamiliar to me. Fear clenched my heart, dampening my resolve.
Light filtered in sporadically through gaps in the worn bricks, highlighting 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’d anticipated. I climbed higher, fighting the trepidation that grew with each step.
The light darkened as I approached the top. I found myself face-to-face with an imposing doorway. Similar to the main gates of the camp, this door was heavy, with thick metal studs, and was topped by a red light. My fingers rested on the door, feeling the weight and 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 hit the back wall.
The air assaulted my senses. An overbearing aroma of cigars and sweat thickened the air. Despite the shattered windows, the scent lingered at the corners, recycled by short gusts of wind. My steps slowed unconsciously as I walked toward the broken windows.
The wind shrieked through the room, whistling sharply and rustling the papers. Under the windows, the long desk held two work stations. Two straight-backed chairs were tucked underneath the desk, and paperwork fluttered beneath the weight of worn bricks. I walked around, looking at the boxes, charts, and red scribbles on the papers.
On the wall behind the desk, a set of framed photos hung, evenly spread along the wall. The first picture looked familiar. As I crept closer, I recognized it from camp. The same picture hung in the meeting hall and in the orphanage, although ours had crumbled edges and small burned spots. This pristine version jumped out at me, and, for once, I could accurately pick out all the people I knew, and several hundred that I had never seen before. I had always focused on the center, where the president shook hands with the farmers as their flag was first hung in the center of camp. It had torn edges and burns marks, but as a symbol it gave us hope and reminded us of what we had survived. Then I saw her, my mother, standing off to the side, unavoidable, her sad smile speaking to me.
Why had I come up here? Those seductive feelings now seemed like a painful tease, the reward insuffic
ient. I traced the frame and moved to the next.
My heart plummeted. “That doesn’t make sense,” I said, grabbing the frame from the wall. My stomach turned, and the frame slipped from my grasp. The crash of the breaking glass brought me back to the present. I picked up the frame and shook out the remaining shards. A small drop of my blood smeared the president’s face as he smirked back at me.
This couldn’t be our president. Not the man who protected us from the contamination, who proclaimed the world to be a desolate waste beyond the confines of the few remaining camps. This photo was recent, and the men wore polished suits, laughing from atop one of the armored ration trucks.
I ran to the next, feeling the pit in my stomach open. I swore as the image burned into my mind. It was the president again, behind his desk. Except this time, waving in the background, a new flag stood, a golden globe surrounded by white stars on a blue background. The same symbol as the charcoal drawings I saw at the base of the tower. I looked back to the first picture and saw our camp flag hanging limp, a shred of its previous glory.
Before I could give the photos 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 fuzzy images of the camp. I knew the guards protected us, but this level of surveillance seemed extreme. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to shake off this new violation, as I watched the movements.
The first monitor showed the interior camp. I watched Mrs. Hutchings walk the school kids down the street, a tight line of children holding each other’s hands as they disappeared, one by one, into the classroom. My eyes slowed on the second monitor showing the farmers working shirtless in the fields. I searched the screen for a familiar face but didn’t find him. The last monitor focused in on the main gates, showing a still picture of the doorway and the guards.
The Ivory Tower Page 7
