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
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
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