The Ivory Tower Read online

  The Ivory Tower

  Kirstin Pulioff

  The Ivory Tower

  Copyright © 2013 Kirstin Pulioff

  Cover Copyright © 2014 Amber Covers

  Edited by Magpie Editorial Services

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than which is published. Your purchase allows you one legal copy of this work for your own personal use. You do not have resell or distribution rights without the prior written permission of the author. This book cannot be reproduced, copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload, or for a fee.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  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.

  Smashwords Edition- 2015

  www.kirstinpulioff.com

  THE IVORY TOWER

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

  “Ready or not, here I come,” I boomed, assessing the empty forest around me. Nothing stood out in the overgrown underbrush: I saw only variegated shades of green, splashed with the occasional bright red dots of salmonberries. After a quick glance down at my olive green leggings, worn thin around the knees, and the 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 Christine already had an advantage. I leaned against the nearest tree, and shook out my left boot, watching small pebbles pour out. The tattered shoes matched my flimsy clothes, and I knew that wouldn’t be the last advantage my friend got.

  Soft strands of sunlight fell on me through the partially cleared canopy, warning of winter’s quick advance. The cold season’s bitter winds wreaked havoc on our camp, but here in the forest, scattered leaves painted the floor in a mosaic of colors. Discarded leaves from 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. Looking at the leaves falling around me, I also knew that even though fall had just begun, a harsh winter would be close behind, restricting us to center camp. Today would be one of our last trips out here for the season, if not longer.

  Maybe that’s why I slowed my steps, letting the game play out moments longer than usual. Whenever Christine hid, a game over quickly followed. But not today. Not when the brief splashes of sun through the trees 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 was rarely freely given. 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 for 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 running blur around the edge of my vision. I could lose, but not big 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 followed rules to a tee, priding herself on honesty and integrity, and held me to the same unrealistic standards. 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 though 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 a pile of pebbles, new rocks took their place. Sharper rocks jabbed 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. 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 in camp; things I had no control over dictated my moves.

  Every day that lack of control grew, tightening 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 factory. Women disappeared inside the large, oppressive building at the edge of camp, only to be spat out at night, worn and tired. With both of us now aged 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 the clutches of the factory. Promoted out, they called it. 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 for higher stakes. This time, everything was laid on the line, much more than a pouch of paint or pride.

  “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 muck slipped through the hole in the bottom of my boots. Cold mud sloshed through my boot, 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 golden coagulated paint in its plastic pouch. I tossed the package between hands, careful not to squeeze it too hard.

  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 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. 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 cor
roded 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. I looked up slowly, following the white trunk until the details grew, and the recognition unfurled.

  “The ivory tower,” I breathed.

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

  I froze, barely feeling her 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 cabin 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 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, 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 said, tears brimming at the edge of her eyes.

  I looked at my friend, obviously afraid, 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 hard I tried to recall the seductive blend of emotions the tower aroused, it escaped me. The memories were pale imitations of that first surge of excitement, reminding me more of what I was missing rather 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 clawing her eyes, and a silent scream that stilled her voice. As much as she wanted to tell, to share the fear tearing through her, she couldn’t. No one spoke about these things. Alarming the camp would only bring pressure down upon us. No one wanted extra notice from the guards.

  It wasn’t as tough for me, staying silent that is. No one spoke to me anyways. Civility didn’t always reach the other side of camp. I bit my tongue, waiting through the torture of Christine’s absence.

  It’d been three days, but it felt like infinity. Images of the tower haunted every moment. When I closed my eyes in bed, visions of a forgotten tower wandered in. Instead of seeing the rotten wooden planks around my room, I saw rows of dilapidated bricks. The creaky floorboards in the cabin 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 monotony of the camp, its desolation, reminded me of the bricks. I couldn’t escape it. Everything took my mind back, especially Christine—or more specifically, the lack of her.

  My gaze drifted back to the empty hole in line. Her absence illuminated the last thing we shared, and her disappearance highlighted its dangerous appeal. Thoughts tingled through me. She should be here. Being afraid was one thing, but being so frightened that she couldn’t show up for rations or school was unheard of. I had to beg before she’d skip with me, and now she’d missed three days. Something was wrong, and I knew whatever kept Christine away had to do with more than just the tower. No one missed rations.

  I shivered, feeling a knot form in my stomach. Panic pulled the edges of the knot tight, squeezing my heart into a cold lump in my chest. I clutched my arms, trying to warm the freeze spreading through me. The strange feelings surprised me. For years they had been regulated to the dark shadows of my room where nightmares and memoires of my mom surfaced. That’s where I needed them to stay.

  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, or reminisce on the long list of people who’d abandoned me. Christine wouldn’t leave me like they had.

  Refocused on the empty spot in line, I counted the families around it. At the front of the line, Stuart Lindle and other camp elites stretched out on the wooden deck in front of the general store. Mr. Lindle leaned against the first wooden post, arms folded against his chest, face hidden beneath the wide rim of his straw hat. Every once in a while, his chin jutted forward and he brushed the tips of his handlebar mustache down. The bright, white cuff at the bottom of his denim sleeve announced his position with a single digit.

  Behind him, the men called ‘checkers’, due to their black and white patterned shirts, kept to themselves. In charge of market inventory and storage, they rarely spoke except to each other or the guards. Anytime I had gotten close, their conversations of broken sentences sounded more like a secret code, almost as if they were systematically checking off a list in their minds. Behind them, other camp officials sat on top wooden boxes and overturned pallets, crowding under the store’s overhang.

  Behind the elite, the rest of camp sprawled out along the warped deck in front of the meeting hall, down the dusty path, around the overgrown garden, and to the other edge of center camp, where broken stones and rotten planks bordered the main street. The further down the line I scanned, the starker the contrast. Clean clothes darkened to stained ones, patches overtook shirts, and the tips of straw hats frayed. Dirt and dust permanently marked the thighs and knees of work pants. Layers of dirt and grime stained the farmers’ clothes, hiding the sewn-in numbers. Dust scattered around people as they painstakingly brushed off the dirt. A hidden number was as good as a missing number.

  By the time I reached the embroidered number seventy, my scan slowed and heart raced. The pain of betrayal tightened in my stomach again. Hawthorne Wentmire, the youngest of the Wentmire farmers, laughed with his brothers. Even standing at the end of the line, I could hear the rich chuckle, and see the way his face scrunched up in amusement. Each ripple of laughter punched me in the gut. He used to react to my jokes that way.

  Not anymore. Not in a long time. I wondered when it would stop hurting, but I suppose betrayal never did.

  “Get it together,” I mumbled, running my fingers through my hair, catching a glimpse of my own embroidered number—677. I sighed and clasped my hands behind my back.

  Every other group in camp stood out, easily identified by the style or condition of clothes—elite, farmers, factory, services—but orphans, we survived on scraps. The scraps of camp, rations, the scraps of care and kindness. We were forgotten or ignored until desperation hit, or we were needed for something.

  “Christine!” I yelled, waving my hands over my head as she turned into view. I ran toward her and stopped when I saw h
er face.

  Walking closely behind her parents, her downcast head explained why she had been missing. Hidden beneath a blank expression, dark shadows outlined her eyes, and the discolored remnants of a bruise spotted her left cheek. Christine stood 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 painted glares 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.

  Was it really my fault, though? I hadn’t found the tower; that was Christine. I hadn’t said anything to anyone, but she obviously had. I didn’t do anything wrong, and yet no matter how I tried to justify it, 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, ignoring Mrs. Booker’s narrowed eyelids and the tight line of her lips. She was trying to determine just how much trouble I had caused this time. If Mrs. Booker knew even half of my escapades, her expression would have been much worse. Memories of transgressions flickered through my mind, and a smile grew on my lips. It had a price, but being an orphan gave me a certain amount of freedom, too.

  The line quieted as the first set of bells rang.

  In the silence of the line, the wind howled sending a shiver down my spine. Crossing my arms to block the chill, goosebumps grew through the scratchy fabric of my shirt. The worn burlap did little to block the force of the wind, and morning mist slid through the wide threads of my shirt. Behind me, teeth chattered.

  “Eli, why didn’t you grab your jacket?” I asked, pulling the young boy to my side, ruffling his mop of dark curls.

  He shrugged and looked up at me with a goofy grin, sticking his tongue out between his missing two front teeth.